No
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: FINISHED Ch 23 up G & S go to a conference, angst ensues
1. Stuck

            "No." The word has a disturbingly final ring as it comes out of her mouth, and I just barely manage to keep my face from registering the surprise I feel. It isn't a tone Sara would normally use with me, and certainly not in a professional context – but there it is.

            I feel rebuffed, and the feeling insinuates itself into my voice as I answer her. "You don't have much choice in this matter, Sara – either you go to the workshop or you're going to have to deal with someone higher-up than me who won't be pleased about having his orders disobeyed."

            Things shift back into familiar territory as she gives me a "piss-off-and-die" glare. "I wasn't aware that CEUs had become mandatory, Grissom," she says tightly, putting more emphasis than necessary on my name. "The last time I checked, we were allowed to pick which courses we wanted to take and not take."

            I shrug, carefully schooling my face into a calm look that belies my rising blood pressure. "CEUs are still voluntary – just not this particular one. As I've already told you, this wasn't my call to make. Tearing a strip off of me isn't going to get you any farther with the management."

            She still looks strained, but the edge in her voice is less sharp as she speaks this time. "I know. You told me that. But . . ." She flings her hands in the air and rolls her eyes. "I don't _get_ it! I do _not_ understand what is so special about forensic linguistics that I cannot possibly be allowed to miss this course!"

            I'd run out of platitudes, and now I was quickly running out of patience with her. "I don't know either," I tell her, picking up my glasses off of the desk and replacing them on my face. "But I also don't know why you would be so vehemently opposed to going. No," I add, holding up a hand as she starts to say something, "don't tell me why. It doesn't particularly matter. Bottom line, Sara: the two of us are stuck going to this workshop. We might as well just adjust to the notion."

            "I'm not adjusting!"

"I noticed." I raise my hand back to my glasses, adjusting them but not taking them off. "And I'm left with only one thing to say in response to that."

She gives me a dark look, daring me to say something that would allow her to yell at me some more. "And just what is that?"

Assuming a look of supreme indifference, I say coolly, "I don't care." I'm gratified to see her eyebrows nearly shoot off her face at my apparent lack of interest. "You can adjust or not adjust," I go on in the same calm way, "and it doesn't matter to me which you choose to do. All I'm concerned with is the fact that I was asked to attend this workshop and I'm going. I'll learn just as much without you there as with you." 

The words seem harsh even before they leave my mouth, but I don't attempt to soften them. What I'm telling her is, technically, the truth – the amount of knowledge I gain could only be increased, not decreased, should she not attend. That the reason for the increase would be because that way she wouldn't be there to distract me is a different issue entirely.

I rein in the mental digression and return my focus to the woman standing in front of me. She looks shocked, I note. She's no more used to hearing such harshness from me than I'm used to hearing it from her. Her mouth opens once, then closes, and I almost laugh as I realize that I've left her speechless. "I'm not telling you that it wouldn't be helpful to have you there," I begin, then check myself. Way to backpedal, Gil – you're just getting the upper hand and now you're going soft because it's Sara you're speaking to. I search for less touchy-feely words as I finish my sentence: "I'm just telling you that, though it's in your best interests to attend, I obviously can't force you, and neither can anyone else."

"Damn straight." Oh, wonderful – there goes her mouth again.

"Okay, then," I say with an abrupt nod. "That would be the end of our business in here."

"What?" She looks confused, and I realize that I've surprised her once again. Twice in one night, a new record for me!

"We've reached an impasse in logic. I've presented all my arguments and you've presented yours. The rest can only be done in our heads." She looks at me like I have two heads and it dawns on me that I've been using big words when small ones would do. "In other words," I offer, "I think this could be called a 'Mexican standoff'. Nothing can be done until one of us deigns to move – or until the workshop begins."

Sara looks at me for a long moment, seeming to wait for me to give her something more. When I don't, she shakes her head and shrugs. "Right. See you later, Grissom."

I nod. As I watch her retreating figure grow smaller as she walks away from my office, I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to stave off the headache I feel coming on.

I've successfully avoided her for almost an entire night, and I'm standing in front of my locker congratulating myself when Greg pops his head around from the other side. "Hey, Gris."

I mumble a greeting, wishing that he didn't pick such inopportune moments to try to bond with me.

I almost groan when the rest of his body follows his head and he plops himself down on the bench in front of me. "So . . ." I brace myself for what's coming – Greg always seems to have something annoying to say – and I'm not disappointed when he continues, "What'd you do to Sara tonight?"

Why does everyone thing I seek out ways to antagonize the woman? I feel like screaming at the next person who mentions Sara to me, especially in the context of the two of us fighting. "I didn't do anything to Sara," I tell the brat with a disdainful look. "And I don't see where it would be your place to ask me that sort of question, anyway."

He gives me an exaggeratedly frightened look. "Hey, okay. Didn't mean to push your buttons. I'll just . . ." He tugs at the collar of his bright green shirt and takes a step away from me. "I'll just leave you alone, then." He beats a hasty retreat, leaving me back where I started, alone.

It drives me crazy that everyone thinks I deliberately do things to her. It also drives me crazy that people act like I'm some monster who doesn't care about the people I work with. In fact, I'm just feeling rather crazy overall tonight. I wonder if I should go rampaging through the halls and just validate everyone's feelings.

I decide against it – big surprise there – and opt instead to change my shirt and hope that my mood changes with it. I tug off the polo I've been wearing and reach into my locker for the old button-down shirt that I know I have in there.

It's not on the hook that it should be on, and as a result I'm crouched down, fishing around the floor of my locker for my clothing, when Sara appears beside me. I look up when I sense the movement, then do a double-take when I realize who it is. The absurd urge to do something to hide my bare chest from her comes upon me, and I just barely resist, knowing how stupid that would make me look. As if I don't look stupid enough in front of her every day of my life.

My hand finally encounters my shirt and I grab it and stand up to face her. Her eyes flick to my chest, and though they just as quickly move back to my face, I decide that I've had enough. I turn my back to her and shrug the shirt on, asking over my shoulder, "Do you need something?"

She says nothing, waiting until I'm back behind my protective barrier of clothing and facing her again. When she does speak then, her words surprise me. " 'Need' . . . no, I don't need anything," she says, sounding wistful. But maybe that's just my wishful thinking. I raise my eyebrows, encouraging her to continue. "I just wanted to let you know that I, ah . . ." She pauses, clearly uncomfortable. 

I have a good idea of what she's going to tell me, and I feel rather guilty for handling things so clumsily that she's forced to tell me this way. I wait for her to go on, trying to look less forbidding.

". . .that I'll be at the workshop," she finishes quickly. "So, uh, yeah. Just . . ." She stops, trying her hardest not to look at me. I wonder if she's really that embarrassed about having to acquiesce to a command I gave her, or whether she just won't look at me on general principle.

I nod gently. "Ok. Thank you for letting me know." I give her what I hope is a conciliatory smile. "I appreciate it."

She nods jerkily and turns to leave. After a moment, she turns back to me and points to my torso. "You, um . . ." I look down and see the problem at the same time she voices it: "You messed up your buttons."

Well, great. I'm incapable of dressing myself like a competent adult when facing her. It's my turn to be embarrassed, and I feel an absurd heat start to creep up my cheeks. I quickly focus my attention on my chest and start unbuttoning. 

Distracted, as usual, by her presence, I fumble with a few buttons and she gives me a knowing look. "Stop, you'll just end up pulling one off." She reaches out and shoos my hands away, making quick work of the buttons that I couldn't figure out. "There." 

She brushes a speck of imaginary – or perhaps not imaginary – dust off of my shoulder and smiles. For just a moment, it's the full grin that I love so much to see on her face. Then it dims and I can tell that she just decided she crossed some sort of line. Whether said line is mine or hers, I don't know, but I look on with no expression as her eyes dart from side to side and she backs away. "Uh . . . yeah. So I'll, uh, see you tomorrow."

She gone before I can formulate a response that doesn't make me look any stupider than I already do, and I lean an arm against my locker and sigh, wishing that this whole problem would just go away.

The problem is still there three days later when I ring her doorbell, so nervous that I fear I might stutter when she opens her door. It's bad enough that the two of us somehow got paired up for this conference, but the fact that the conference is in New York makes me wonder if someone upstairs is out to get me. I'm going to have to spend five hours in a cramped airplane with her! 

Does she like the aisle, or the window? I wonder, then quickly dismiss the thought as inconsequential. It doesn't matter; she can have whichever she likes.

I'm still trying to convince myself that I can survive the flight when her door opens and she gives me a curious look. "You're early."

I look at my watch to verify this. I am, indeed, thirty minutes early picking her up. Well, I just got a little impatient sitting at home. Half an hour isn't that bad, right? Besides, we could use the extra time for airport check-in hassles. "Sorry," I mumble.

Despite her words, she appears to be ready to go, wearing a loose pair of jeans and an LVPD sweatshirt. Her suitcase – or one of them, at least – sits by the door, neatly zipped and locked. I gesture to it and ask her if it's ready to go to my car. She nods and tells me to hold on a second while she gets her carry-on and purse.

She shuts her door in my face, probably just by reflex, and I'm left on her front stoop, contemplating the myriad ways that this trip could go wrong. I've just come up with "Sara could meet another man there" when her door opens again and she gives me a sheepish look. "Sorry. It's habit to shut my door like that."

I nod, unsurprised. "I figured." She wheels her suitcase outside and I pick it up easily, glad that I don't look like a chump trying to carry something too heavy for him.

"Hey, wait up." She takes long steps to catch up with me. "It's not going to do me any good if you and my suitcase make it to New York, but I don't." She gives me a smile and a rush of hope fills me. Maybe this week won't be so bad . . .


	2. Reflections in pastry

We get to the airport in plenty of time, partly due to my being early to pick her up, and I'm feeling rather clever as we wait in line to check our suitcases. Looking down at her bag, I say, "I'm impressed."

She looks at me curiously. "At what? My choice of luggage?"

Guess my opening line wasn't as good as I thought. Well, there goes the whole "cleverness" thing. "At your, uh, ability to pack only one suitcase. Most women would . . ."

I don't get a chance to finish my sentence. She gives me a Look and I immediately close my mouth. " 'Most women,' Grissom?" She shakes her head. "You're so predictable sometimes."

"Predictable?" I don't like the way that sounds. "How am I predictable?"

She starts to say something and then seems to think better of it. "Never mind."

"I want to know how I'm predictable," I insist.

"Well," she says waspishly, clearly finished discussing the subject, "you can just go ask someone else, then."

We're both silent for a few minutes, until the tension becomes unbearable for me. "So," I say tentatively, "do you want the window seat, or the aisle?"

She looks thoughtful. "Do you have a preference?"

"I'm flexible."

I get the feeling that she has a smart response to that one, but she chooses not to use it. "I'm an aisle person. I need to be able to get in and out of my seat whenever I want to."

I nod. "Okay. We have one window seat and one aisle, so I'll take the window and you can have your aisle."

She offers a faint smile. "Thanks." 

There's a minute of silence as we both try to think of something else to say, and it's just getting to be uncomfortable when an airline employee motions us to the next check-in counter. We show her our identification and receive our boarding passes.

She asks us if we have anything we need to check and we lift our bags onto the scale. "I need to declare my gun," Sara says matter-of-factly. "I'm licensed and it's unloaded." She shows the attendant her license, then opens the bag to display the weapon to her. After a few minutes, the woman slaps a bright red sticker on Sara's suitcase and pushes it onto the conveyor belt that will take it to our plane.

Both women turn to me. I suddenly feel silly, knowing that Sara brought her gun and I haven't. But then, she might not be aware of how strict New York City gun laws are. It's unlikely she'll be taking that gun anywhere except between her hotel room and mine.

But then, why would she be going between our rooms? I slip into a pleasant daydream as we make our way down the concourse to our gate. In it, Sara and I bond during the flight, and by the time we reach New York we're friends again. Then we get to the hotel and find that we have adjoining rooms, which makes Sara laugh, then raise her eyebrows at me . . .

My brain tries to take the dream farther, but I force myself out of the reverie. Worry about becoming friends first, I remind myself – then you can try to figure out the attraction thing. In the spirit of that thought, I look over and give her a friendly smile.

She gives me a weird look and I hope that my smile didn't look more crazy than friendly. "Have you eaten, Grissom?" she says, eyeing the coffee shops and restaurants that line the hall.

I blink. "Uh . . . no. Why do you ask?"

"Why does everything have to be an interrogation with you?" she shoots back, though her voice lacks any real heat. "When someone asks you a question, you're supposed to answer, not ask a question back."

I've been doing it like this for forty-six years, I want to tell her, and it's gotten me this far without incident. Of course, I don't actually say that. I'm tempted – very tempted – but the truce I'd just created in my mind would be broken if I did. I may not keep all my promises, but I'd like to keep my record clear of promises broken after less than five minutes.

"Grissom?" She nudges my arm with her elbow. "Just answer the question – this is not the time for reflection."

"Ok," I say. "Well, have _you_ eaten?"

She growls something unintelligible at me and I realize that I just did it again. "Oops," I mutter. "No, Sara, I haven't eaten." I'm about to add w_ould you like to go eat?_ but it hits me just in time that that's a question, too. 

She gives me an expectant look. When I keep my mouth shut for a few more seconds, she shakes her head and snorts. "You're so . . . inept sometimes." My eyes narrow at the apparent insult and she quickly adds, "It's cute."

Cute? She thinks I'm cute because I'm an idiot when it comes to interpersonal relations? Hah, if only! "What's cute?" I'm suspicious of this conversation. Very suspicious.

She shrugs and I can tell she's trying to dismiss the issue. "Never mind."

This is too good an opportunity to let slip, so I take a step to the side, toward her, and she moves away. I repeat this action until we've reached the edge of the hallway, almost touching the wall, and then I purposely drop my carry-on bag in front of her.

She reflexively jumps back and then, recovering, glares at me. "What was that for?" She spoiling for a fight now – I know that tone.

Putting on my most charming smile, I pick up the offending baggage and move it out of her way, then lean against the wall. "I so rarely hear myself called 'cute'," I say casually, "that when I do hear it, I have to find out what it means."

She relaxes, realizing that I'm not starting trouble. "I just mean that sometimes you're so bad at handling people that it's funny. Funny to the point that I can tell that you have no intention of being rude – you're just that clueless."

"So you like it when I make a fool of myself," I summarize.

"Grissom," she says, "In all the years I've known you, you've never managed to make a real fool of yourself. I wish you would some day, just so I could be sure you're human. In the meantime, I have to settle for the little things like this."

I nod, though I still don't really understand her, and pick up my bag. "Thank you for answering me," I tell her.

"Anytime."

We walk in silence for a few minutes before I realize that I never did answer her question satisfactorily. "I suppose I am getting hungry," I offer. "Would you like to get something to eat?"

She turns to me and grins. "I thought you'd never ask! I've got to fill up on something edible before we get stuck on that plane eating unidentifiable mush."

"I'm sure that between the two of us, we could identify it." I am, indeed, quite sure of this. I also know that she wasn't looking for an answer. See – this time I'm not clueless!

She sticks her tongue out at me, and I smile. "But, moving past that fact – what are you in the mood for?"

There's silence for a moment as she just looks at me. It dawns on me what I just said, and the inferences that could be drawn from it. Oops. "Er . . .What sort of food do you want," I rephrase carefully.

If this were anyone else, neither of us would have noticed the double entendre in my words. It's only when I'm dealing with Sara that I'm painfully aware of how things could be mistaken. I think it's the same for her – I've never her seen her react to anyone else's possibly-risqué comments the way she does to mine.

But then, I wasn't making a risqué comment. It's hard to remember that when she's looking at me like she can't decide whether to jump me or slap me. For the sake of both of us, I pray that she does neither while we're standing in the middle of the airport.

Once we're in New York, she can do anything she wants to me.

No. Wait. That's bad. Thoughts like that are _not good. They're bad, in fact._

I shake my head, trying to clear out the increasingly unprofessional thoughts that are clamoring around in there.

"Hey." Sara's hand touches my arm lightly. "Earth to Grissom. Come in Grissom, we're about to land on Planet Feed Me Or Else."

The humor in her voice does what she probably intended it to do – that being distracting me from what I just said. Of course, her reason for wanting to distract me is probably a lot different than my reason for wanting to distract myself.

"Right," I say, half my mind still on the previous thoughts. "Lead on."

She raises her eyebrows. "I get to pick?"

I nod. "Yeah. Just pretend I have social skills and know how to treat a lady – it makes more sense then."

"You're nuts, you know that? I don't know why I'm not afraid of being within five feet of you," she grumbles, and within seconds she takes off walking again.

I follow along behind her, giving my brain free rein for the time it takes to get from here to whatever restaurant she leads me to. So . . . what was I thinking about her? Oh, right – how her reasons are different from mine.

Of course, if _I_ knew what my reasons were, I'd be a lot farther ahead in the game than I am. I know she thinks I run hot and cold on a moment's notice, but in reality I don't . . . ok, well, I do. But I almost always have a reason.

Like realizing that I shouldn't encourage her.

Like seeing her with a man closer to her own age.

Like coming within an inch of touching her, and then having someone walk into the room.

There are a million reasons why I run cold, but there's really only one reason why I run hot: because when I drop my guard, I can't stop thinking about her.

I'm constantly reminding myself to keep the wall up, because if I forget, things tend to happen. Things like the night I told her, in my own way, how beautiful she is. I'm sure she got the message then. And when she got hurt in the lab exp . . .

"Grissom!" Her voice breaks into my thoughts. She sounds annoyed.

I force my attention back to reality and look around. We're standing in front of an Au Bon Pain – some sort of pastry shop, from what I can see. I give her a skeptical look. "We're eating here?"

She crosses her arms and gives me a look that verifies what I heard in her voice. Yep, she's annoyed. "If you had been paying _attention to what I was saying, Gris, you'd know that I just asked you that."_

"Huh?" It's not exactly erudite, but it's the most I can manage at the moment.

"You stopped first," she explains pointedly. "I asked you if that meant you wanted to eat here. You proceeded to ignore me."

Uh-oh. "I wasn't ignoring you."

"Do I look like I care?" She stares me in the eye, and sure enough, she doesn't look hurt, only impatient.

"Sorry." I can't go five minutes without doing something stupid in front of her, it seems. Maybe I should just accept it and try to play it up – and hope she thinks it's "cute," like she thought my last faux pas was. "I was thinking."

"Obviously not about what you want to eat," she says with a reluctant smile. The gods are being munificent today – it looks like she's forgiven me yet again.

"Sorry." It's all I can think of to say. "So, uh . . . lead on."

She sighs. "Do you want to just eat here? Since we're here anyway, and I'm hungry . . ."

I snap at the opportunity to change the subject. "Yes, here's fine." I look through the doorway, trying to see what I'm going to be eating.

"They have sandwiches." She's read my thoughts, as usual. "And pastries, and soup – it's your basic café sort of place."

"Oh." Good, we're not going to be eating at Brussel Sprouts 'R' Us or anything.

The thought may be uncharitable, but it's too funny for my already-stressed nerves and I start to snicker.

She looks at me, the words "are you insane?" written all over her face.

I try to swallow the laughter and end up choking on it. "Um," I manage between coughs, "just . . . something funny in my head."

"There's _always_ something 'funny' going on inside your head," she says, rolling her eyes. "Now how about you and me and the funny voices in your head move it inside so I can get on line?"

She brushes past me, though not unkindly, before I get myself together, and I get a second to just look at her back side. No, no – not backside. Her back side. As opposed to her front side.

Ok, and her backside.

I give myself a little shake at that thought - bad Grissom! – and move into the restaurant, joining her in line. She's studying the posted menu intently and doesn't bother to look at me.

I'm doing my best to play Mr. Friendly today, and as far as I can tell, that means I should ask polite questions and start conversations. "So . . ." I say, leaning over her shoulder slightly, "what are you getting?"

She turns to look at me, catching me by surprise, and nearly smashes into my face with her own. Hmm, maybe I should take the whole "personal space" thing a little more seriously. I quickly move back, hoping to get away from this one without a lecture.

My luck holds, and she just gives me a sour look and returns her attention to the menu. I do the same, knowing that if I don't pick now, I'll end up at the front of the line, stuttering.

I have a genius-level IQ, for heaven's sake. What is it about this woman that reduces me to a blithering idiot? Whatever it is, she ought to bottle it. She could market it to angry wives and eager almost-girlfriends alike – it'd sell like mad.

I'm still concentrating – ok, mostly concentrating – on the menu when she turns to me, checking first to make sure I'm not hanging over her again. "What are you going to get?"

I glance back at the menu and say the first thing that comes to mind. "Lentil soup."

She gives me an assessing look. "I didn't know you liked lentils. I thought you were a 'meat and potatoes' sort of guy."

"Just goes to show," I say without thinking, "that you should eat with me more often."

Oh god, did I just say that? 

Her eyes fly to my face, which I try to make as impassive as possible. She watches me for a few seconds, waiting for my front to crumble, but I manage to outlast her. "Um, okay," she says finally, sounding . . . not happy. I think I just did the leading-her-on thing again.

Well, hell. This is why I have to be so careful not to drop my guard around her, damn it!

"Yes," I say lamely, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, "I like lentils. I don't eat them every day or anything, but I like them."

Her eyes narrow slightly and I can feel her studying me, trying to figure out what just happened. When she speaks again, her voice actually sounds a little cheery, and I wonder what's going on inside her head. "Well, you have good taste," she tells me, a tiny smile turning up the edges of her mouth. "That's what I'm getting too."

I smile back. "I won't bother voicing the cliché."

Her small smile widens into a larger one and she tries to give me a serious look over it. "Well, I know _my_ mind is pretty great, but lately I'm not too sure about yours."

I widen my eyes in mock-hurt. Am I flirting with her? Or is she flirting with me? Or is this just how friends banter? It occurs to me that I really have no idea how to distinguish between the three. I've lost all perspective. Can't see the forest for the trees, and all that.

I'm too close to her, both mentally and physically. I can fix the physical part – I take a subtle step away from her – but the mental part is more difficult. "Mine got me where I am now," I say. "Make of that what you will."

Her eyes search my face and I can feel her wondering whether I mean my job or my current location with her. 

If it's the former, I sound like I'm lording my position over her. If it's the latter, then we're back to talking about how I'm an idiot, not how great my mind is.

Too bad I don't know which I meant, either.


	3. Cretinous kisses

I've somehow kept from embarrassing myself in the past hour, and as Sara and I wait in line at our gate I silently congratulate myself. Maybe it was just some initial jitters – things will have to get easier for me, because I can't come off much worse than I already am.

Sara stands next to me, a snarl on her face. Her foot's tapping at about 120 beats per minute – a good march tempo. Too bad we're waiting in line and not marching. "We'll get there," I lean over and whisper to her. "Please don't attack anyone in front of you."

She gives me a quelling look. "I know. 'If you kill someone now, Sara,'" she mimics, "then we'll miss our flight.' You're the soul of understanding, Grissom."

"I didn't say that."

"I read your mind."

I raise my eyebrows and give her a look that asks for more explanation. She shrugs. "I'm kidding. Obviously." 

She returns her attention to the couple standing in front of us. They're obviously tourists, and they have typical tourist manners. The woman put down her carry-on bag squarely on Sara's foot a few minutes ago, and I really thought Sara was going to lose it, but she managed to restrain herself.

She elbows me and I look over at her, then follow her eyes toward the male half of the tourist couple. He's somehow managed to back up while his wife stayed put, and now he's looking over his shoulder at Sara and doing strange things with his eyebrows. She looks back to me and grimaces painfully, begging me to do something.

What am _I_ supposed to do about this?

I clear my throat, hoping that the man will realize how close he is to us and give us our personal space back. He glances at me for a second, but seems to dismiss me and stays where he is. Sara kicks my heel and glares at me and I glare back, trying to telepathically order her to get herself out of this and leave me out of it.

The man eases another step backward, and now he's within inches of Sara's body. She moves to the side, trying to get out of his path, but he shifts with her.

She looks completely exasperated now. The next time the man gives her what he thinks is a seductive stare, she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at him. I have to stifle a laugh, but he doesn't seem to get the joke and just wiggles his eyebrows back.

They're rather unkempt eyebrows, I think, though there's really no reason for me to notice such a thing. I hope mine don't sprout random long hairs like his do, and I raise a hand and smooth it over my left eyebrow before I realize what I'm doing. Sara grins at me, obviously following my train of thought, and mouths, "He's disgusting!" to me.

I shrug, then nod. Well, yes he is. That doesn't mean I should pick a fight with him because Sara doesn't like him. I stay where I am and mouth back to her, "Wait him out."

At that moment, he fakes a cough and takes another step back, bringing himself directly in contact with Sara's front. She huffs loudly and pushes her way out from behind him, moving closer to me. 

I'm about to label the problem solved and return to my thoughts when she takes a firm hold on my arm and announces, "Honey? When are you teaching that Judo class, again?"

Hell. I have no choice but to play along, and so I say, "Not until Monday, dear. They had to put down the extra padding to cushion the people I throw, remember?"

"Oh." She nods grandly. "Right." Slewing her eyes to the side, she checks to see if our act has discouraged Eyebrow Man. It hasn't, and he wiggles his eyebrows yet again, this time making suggestive – and lewd – movements with his mouth.

Sara shudders. "That's _it_." She stands still for a moment, seeming to psych herself up for something, then very deliberately steps forward, pushing the man back toward his wife and away from her. "Sir, I'm sorry you seem to have some sort of facial tic," she begins in a voice designed to sound as _un-sorry as possible, "but you really need to direct it at someone else. My husband and I are trying to enjoy our honeymoon."_

My eyes widen so quickly that I'm afraid one of them will end up prolapsed, and I stare at her, dumbfounded. I notice after a second that the man is giving her a similar look, and that if I want him gone I ought to act like it's just another day of being married to Sara. "That's right," I announce, putting an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure your wife would rather you give your attention to her."

The man gives me a dirty look. "Maybe you ought to tell her to stop snuggling up to me, then," he says, and his voice is as repulsive as the rest of him. 

I'm starting to get angry now – I've rarely met someone so rude to women. The man's on the verge of sexually harassing Sara right here in an airport! "Sir." I try to sound as calm as possible, not as though I'd like to deck the guy. "I'm going to ask you one more time to leave us alone, and then I'm going to go find a security guard."

Sara snickers, no doubt trying to embarrass the man as much as possible. The cretin isn't getting the message, though, and opens his mouth to say something that will doubtlessly be more offensive than his last. She looks at me desperately and I do the first thing that comes to mind: pull her closer to me and kiss her.

Well, I almost kiss her. It's more like my lips brushing her cheek as I whisper to her to make this look good, but it still feels like a kiss.

We can't hold this pose forever, trying to look as though we're kissing, and I realize that I have two choices. I can release her, and hope the man got the hint, or I can completely embarrass both Sara and myself and kiss her for real. Knowing that we won't be moving in this line for at least another fifteen minutes, I'm forced to opt for the latter.

"Play along," I manage to hiss to her before I force her head towards me, pushing our lips together. I feel her body jerk as she realizes what I'm doing, then go limp for a moment as she decides what to do. She only really has one choice, though, and soon enough she's forced to kiss me back.

I really hope she won't kill me for this later – I'm only doing this to rescue her.

Not like I'm enjoying it.

It's just a duty. Something to protect my CSI.

Yeah, right! My subconscious isn't aware of my supposedly honorable motives, and as it takes over those thoughts scatter from my mind. 

She's kissing me back just as earnestly, I note defensively as I wrap my arms around her tighter. Something that might be a moan or a whimper rises from her throat and her body relaxes again. I pray she hasn't fainted or something.

Eyebrow Man makes a rude noise and mutters something undoubtedly crude to his wife. She giggles shrilly. I open my eyes and look over Sara's head at them. He's turned away, finally. I have no more reason to be touching her, and yet I'm finding it difficult to send that message to certain areas of my body.

I loosen my hold on her and pull back my head slightly, releasing most of the pressure on her lips, then gradually remove my mouth from hers entirely.

When I release her, she stares at me with wide eyes. I don't know what to say to her following that performance, and so I turn away. Of course, what I've just done to protect her from a man's harassment could very well be interpreted as more harassment. I hope that Sara wouldn't think I had meant any harm, but given our relationship just lately, I can't count on anything.

We're going to need to talk about this.

Somebody kill me.


	4. Silence is gummi

Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't want to talk about what happened while we were waiting in line. Sara's been completely quiet ever since then, barely looking at me. I think I embarrassed her. No, I _know I embarrassed her. But I can deal with embarrassment – I'm just hoping I didn't scare her or disgust her._

I turn my head to the side, just enough so that I can see her out of the corner of my eye. Given the fact that we're scrunched in economy class, it's not all that difficult. I could probably keep an eye on her without moving my head at all, but I'm not _that_ uptight yet.

She's staring straight ahead, ostensibly at the dangling TV monitor on which a pretty stewardess is telling us how to escape should the plane disintegrate around us, and chewing a piece of gum that I assume is supposed to keep her ears from popping. 

The stewardess smiles at us one last time and assures us that she and the airline are ecstatic to the point of incontinence about us flying with them. I roll my eyes – does anyone really watch these things? I've been on so many planes in my life that I could probably give instructions to the flight attendants, rather than vice versa, and just the sound of, "Your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device should it be necessary . . ." makes me drowsy.

I catch myself just on the point of unconsciousness and jerk my head up, then steal a glance at Sara to see if she noticed.

She didn't, it seems. In fact, she's still staring at the same spot she has been for the past ten minutes, even though the monitor has retracted into the ceiling and there's nothing left to study.

I think she's just trying to avoid looking at me – and usually I'd be perfectly happy with that. Today, though, other forces are at work. I'm still working on the acting-like-a-friend thing, which would be a whole lot easier if she'd look at or speak to me . . . and I know that we're eventually going to have to discuss the . . . thing.

I've never been so thankful to be sitting next to someone who makes me uncomfortable rather than a complete stranger. Usually I opt for the stranger and hope that they catch my leave-me-alone vibes, but as I survey the area around our pair of seats, I decide that having a stranger between us would only make things infinitely worse.

This way, no one else has to witness the dressing-down I'm sure I'm about to receive.

The pilot comes on the PA system to inform us that we've reached our cruising altitude and flight attendants will be coming through the aisles to serve drinks. I momentarily consider shelling out the five dollars for an alcohol fix, but I know that that's probably not the best of choices given my current situation

Sara's still staring off into space.

I'm getting jumpy now. I'll give her another minute to snap out of it, and then I'm saying something. I wait, fighting the urge to tap my foot, and watch her, hardly trying to hide my scrutiny. She doesn't notice, which adds to my surety that something bad is going on in her head.

"Sara?"

She doesn't react immediately and I stare at the side of her head, wondering what I'm supposed to do now. "Sara?" I try again, this time with a little tap on her shoulder.

Her head snaps around and she gives me an irritated look. "What?"

I look around us once more, to make sure no one's paying excessive attention, and then reply, "I think we should probably, uh . . . talk about the . . ." I can't think of a word for it, so I kind of nod my head and hope she gets the hint.

She blinks at me, trying to figure out what I just said, and then her eyes dart to the side. I know that look – that's her I-don't-wanna-deal-with-it-and-I'm-NOT-gonna-deal-with-it look. The same one she gives me when she's standing in my doorway and I can't think of anything to say, just before she leaves me there.

"I don't think that's necessary, Gris," she says, not even trying to pretend she doesn't know what I mean. I think that's a step in the right direction . . . I think. 

I shake my head and say firmly, "We do. I need to explain my motive for doing that. So you don't feel like I, uh, assaulted you." God, why did _I bring this up? Why couldn't I leave well enough alone?_

She sighs. "You didn't 'assault' me. I'm completely aware of that. You were trying to help me get rid of the guy with the scary eyebrows. Thank you for your help, and you don't have to worry that I'll sue you. Now," she says, injecting a falsely bright note into her voice, "can we drop it?"

"Listen," I try again, "It has to be done, whether we find it comfortable or not."

"No."

She seems to be saying that word to me a lot lately.

"Yes," I insist. "I'm trying to make sure you're not traumatized or anything, Sara, and frankly, this act isn't making me any more confident of that." I'm treading in territory that's dangerous for both of us, but I see no way to avoid it.  

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but her face takes on an even harder look. "I'm not traumatized. I'm not too sure I can say the same for _you, but _I'm_ not." She looks at me and she must see something in my face, because she softens her voice and adds, "Really, Grissom – I'm not. I promise. Could you please just . . ." Her mouth works for a second and she seems to be trying to think of a good way to tell me to bugger off. "Just . . . leave it?" she finishes, eyes pleading with me._

I'm not at all sure that she's telling the truth, but I know from years of experience that pushing her any further on the topic will only get me the silent treatment – if I'm lucky. I nod in agreement. "Okay." I know I'm doing what's best for me by shutting up, not what's best for her, but I just can't make myself pursue it and start an argument when we've had peace all day.

I turn my attention away from her and am just reaching under the seat for my carry-on bag when she touches my hand. I jerk my head up so quickly that I can almost feel my brain rebounding of the front wall of my skull, and look at her.

She smiles tentatively. "I'm fine," she repeats, then awkwardly pats my arm in a friendly gesture. "It's nice of you to be concerned."

Now suddenly I'm "nice"? Who's running hot and cold _now, Miss Sidle? I mumble a response to her. I'm not too sure what I'm saying, so I'm sure she doesn't understand it either, but she seems to accept it. As soon as she looks away, I duck back down for my book of crossword puzzles, hoping to bury myself in it and forget the presence next to me._

"Grissom?" she says about an hour later.

"Hmm?" I don't look up from my crossword – I've been stuck on this clue for the past fifteen minutes, and it's on the tip of my tongue. If I let her distract me now, I'll never catch it.

"Well, first of all . . ." She snatches the book out of my hands and I look up at her, then back down at my now-empty hands. She wiggles the book at me, then points to 13 down, the clue that's driving me crazy. "The answer is 'anaphor'. Second of all . . ." She pauses, letting me absorb what she just said.

I look at the book, silently counting spaces, then return my gaze to her. I'm impressed – she's right. " 'What's John when it's him and me?'" I read off the page. "An anaphor. Of course."

She smiles triumphantly. "And _that, Grissom, is why I don't need to be going to a conference to learn more fancy grammar words."_

"How'd you know that?" I'm still trying to process the fact that she just showed me up on my own puzzle.

"Because I'm a genius," she says, rolling her eyes. "But that's not the point."

"What _is_ the point?" I'm almost afraid to ask.

"I was going to ask you if you brought any snacks."

I automatically reach for my bag, then stop mid-bend. "You just ate at the airport." She's hungry again? Already? Maybe she's hypoglycemic – that would explain a lot of her mood swings . . .

"Not for me." She grins and I look at her suspiciously. "For you," she explains. "Your stomach is growling. You were concentrating too hard to notice."

I was? It is? I pause, trying to verify her statement. Sure enough, my stomach emits a loud rumble after a few seconds. "Oops," I mumble. "I, uh . . . no, I didn't bring anything. But I can wait," I add. "Doesn't really matter."

She snorts. "I put up with enough of your moodiness that I'm not going to sit by when I can fix it this time."

Did she just read my mind again? She really needs to stop doing that.

A handful of some sort of . . . gummy thing . . . lands in my lap. I look at the candies, mentally assessing the ingredients.

"They don't _bite_, Grissom," Sara says, and promptly picks one up from my lap and pops it into her mouth.

Red alert. Dirty thoughts on the horizon. She seems very comfortable around my lap . . .

Bad Grissom!

Ahem.

She clears her throat and I raise my eyes from where they were lingering on her hand. "Oh," I manage, clearing my throat. "Uh, thanks. What are they?"

She picks up another one and dangles it in front of me. "Gummi worms. Geez, how can you not recognize these?"

I shrug. "I'm not much of a candy eater."

"Open up." She moves toward me and I instinctively shift back in my seat. "Gris_som_!" The worm makes another appearance. "Just eat the damn thing. I can't concentrate when your stomach's talking constantly."

I reluctantly take it from her, giving it one more suspicious look before I pop it in my mouth. It's surprisingly good and I chew for moment before asking, "Concentrate on what?"

"Huh?"

"What are you trying to concentrate on?" I swallow, then nod toward her empty hands. "No book or anything."

She smiles sheepishly. "I'm thinking."

I want to ask her what about, but I decide to allow her to tell me or not tell me on her own. "Could I have a few more of those gummi . . . worms?" I ask instead.

She hands me the bag, then sighs. "The whole thinking thing wasn't going too well, anyway. I think I'm going to try to take a nap. Don't get offended if I drool, ok?"

The image of her asleep and drooling is, rather oddly I suppose, more endearing to me than it is unpleasant. "I'll just stick your arm under your head if you do."

She smiles tiredly. "You do that," she says, then slouches down in her seat and tries to find a comfortable position. Within minutes, I hear her breathing even out. She slouches down another inch and her body starts to lean toward me.

I can see where this is going.

I'm right.

She ends up against my shoulder – not drooling, at least – and I freeze. I don't want to wake her up, especially at a time like this - when she's touching me, and she looks so . . . not angry.

So I sit and watch her. My legs start to cramp after a while and I alternate stretching them out in front of me, which isn't very helpful given the distinct lack of legroom in front of me. At least it relieves some of the pressure in my legs – just in time for my arm to fall asleep where Sara's laying on it. There's not really anywhere I can stretch that particular appendage without disturbing her, so I try flexing and relaxing the muscles in it. Again, not much use, but it helps some.

By the time my neck starts to hurt, I've resigned myself to staying awake so I can keep her comfortable.


	5. The Eyebrow of Justice

The overhead lights dim and the in-flight movie comes on about three hours into the flight. I don't know whose bright idea it was to turn it on with a such a short time left until we land, but I have nothing better to do and so I check it out. It looks like it's one of those heartwarming-type stories about a racehorse and his jockey. I can't really tell more than that because you need headphones to listen to it, and I don't have any. Even if I did, getting them would require too much movement.

I watch the movie with no sound for a while, but it's hard to keep your attention on something when it seems like it's just a montage of horses running in circles. Whatever plot there is is lost on me, and so I eventually move my attention away from it.

It's a little after ten o'clock at night, Las Vegas time, and most of the people in seats around Sara and me are sleeping. Those who aren't are generally watching the movie, most with rapt expressions on their faces. I guess it's more entertaining when you can hear the lines.

I don't have a lot of entertainment options at the moment. I don't want to do anything to wake Sara, which pretty much rules out any reading or puzzle-doing; I don't have headphones to listen to the movie or the radio; and there's not even anybody around for me to talk to, should I become that desperate.

I settle for people-watching, which, though lacking some of its luster when it involves sleeping people, is a good way for me to relax and still keep my mind active. One of the first people I spot when I allow my eyes to begin studying the airplane's occupants is Eyebrow Man, seated a few rows behind and to the side of me.  He's not sleeping either, nor is he watching the movie. He looks like he's got his entire consciousness devoted to consuming the three mini-bottles of vodka that cover the fold-out tray in front of him. His wife is asleep beside him, her mouth hanging indelicately open. Every now and then he reaches over and squeezes her upper thigh. Maybe it's some sort of possessive gesture, to prove he's allowed to touch her there.

If I tried that on Sara, even if we were in an alternate universe and married, I don't think she'd let me get away with it more than once. She's not the type to allow herself to be possessed, especially not by a man who needs to grope her regularly. I smile at the thought of how she would probably chew out anyone who tried such a thing on her, and though I'm tempted to test my hypothesis by touching her, I decide that it's probably a lot funnier in my head than it would be in reality.

The Amazing Eyebrow knocks back another shot and I move my attention away from him – nothing deep going on in his corner. My gaze lands on another couple across the plane from me. I'm separated from them by the center row of four seats, all occupied, so I have some cover to watch from behind. These people look nothing like the previous two. They're both neatly dressed, the man in chinos and a sweater, the woman in jeans and a blouse. Nobody would be walking around Vegas in such warm clothes, even at this time of year, so I figure they're probably from New York and returning home.

The man's arm is resting behind the woman's shoulders and she's leaning her head back against it with her face turned in toward his shoulder. I can't tell if she's asleep or not, but her companion – her husband? – looks like he is. He has his cheek resting on top of her bent head, and his eyes are closed. A slight smile is on his lips. He looks completely relaxed and happy – like this situation and this woman are completely familiar to him.

His hair is graying, much like mine is, I notice, while the woman's hangs to her mid-back, shiny and dark. I wish fleetingly that they'd both open their eyes and raise their heads so I could see whether they bear more than this small resemblance to Sara and myself. I think it would make me feel better about my situation, though there's no logical reason why that should be. I guess it would reassure me that happiness could happen with me, too. Completely illogical, indeed, but it would still be nice.

The man turns his head slightly so his lips rest in the woman's hair, and I feel like I'm intruding on them by watching this. I turn away, searching for another subject to study – hopefully one somewhere in between the vulgarity of the first couple and the perfection of the second. My eyes meet those of a woman sitting directly across the aisle from me, and it's obvious that she's doing the same thing I am. We both smile a little, acknowledging our nosiness, then look away and return to our searching.

No one else catches my eye, so after a few seconds I look back at the woman and find her looking at me again also. We smile again, this time a little more warmly, and she says, "Not much else to do at the moment, right?" Her voice is politely quiet and I'm glad that I've been seated near someone with manners enough not to wake the woman sleeping on my shoulder.

"Exactly," I reply just as quietly. "But then, watching sleeping people isn't nearly as entertaining as watching wakeful ones."

"True." She nods toward Sara. "I'd shake your hand, but it doesn't look like you have too much range of motion at the moment. My name's Sharon."

"Gil." I nod an awkward hello, then add, "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. I'm especially glad to be meeting someone like you, rather than like _him_." She shudders and gestures back toward Eyebrow Man.

"Him?" I ask, nodding toward the man.

"Yeah. They had me seated next to him originally, but he started rubbing against me even before we took off, so I demanded a seat change." She makes an exasperated noise. "Honestly, some people."

"Well, I won't be doing anything like that, to you or anyone else," I promise. "He was trying to do the same thing to my, uh . . ." I look down at Sara, groping for the right word. "To my friend. While we were waiting in line to board."

"And you, I assume, rescued her?" Her voice is warm and I begin to get a little nervous. Is she flirting with me, or is she just being overly friendly because I stand in sharp contrast to The Cretin?

I clear my throat and hope I'm not blushing. "Uh, well actually she pretty much rescued herself. I did try, though."

Her face relaxes into a big smile. "Practice makes perfect. It looks like you impressed her quite adequately," she says, looking again at Sara's current position.

It takes me a moment to figure out what she means, because I certainly haven't gotten the feeling that I've impressed Sara at all, but then I look down at Sara. Ah, Sharon must mean that she's leaning against me because I impressed her. "She's just tired," I say sheepishly. "This is very unusual for her." And for me, I add silently.

"At times like this," she says, amusement lurking in her voice, "you take what you can get."

Was I just insulted? Once again, I'm not sure, so I choose to believe that I wasn't. "I'd rather it be given consciously than unconsciously, but I suppose you're right."

"So . . ." Sharon's eyes turn speculative. "She's just a friend?"

How do I answer that? "We, uh, work together," I explain haltingly. "And we're friends." Sometimes. 

"So are you on a business trip, then? Or taking a vacation together?"

The question startles me. A vacation with Sara? Don't I wish! "Business trip. We're on our way to a conference in New York."

She suddenly looks more interested. "Oh, really? A conference on what?"

"Languages. Er, well, forensic linguistics."

"No kidding! That's where I'm headed too! The NYU one?"

I nod. Oh please, God, don't let her be hitting on me. "Yes. We're from the Vegas Sheriff's department. Well, the crime lab, actually."

"I'm a detective," she says. "In Barstow."

I know that there's probably an appropriate response to that, one that will keep the conversation flowing, but I can't think of it. "Barstow," I repeat nodding.

"Yeah, not too much to say about it, right? Not nearly as fun as Vegas, I imagine."

"Well," I say, "I don't know about 'fun' . . ." 

She shakes her head with a light chuckle. "Don't bother. If we weren't the type of people who find this stuff 'fun,' we wouldn't be doing what we're doing."

She's good, I decide. The type of detective I wouldn't mind working with – the type who wouldn't walk across a good trail of footprints or pick up a knife by grabbing the end with her bare fingers. I nod. "Okay, you're right. I do have fun with it most of the time – but I don't think the general public would be reassured if they knew that."

"Hey." She shrugs elaborately. "Better we have fun with our jobs than hate them. I've been trying to get into the Las Vegas department, but I haven't had any luck so far." She looks at me closely for a moment, then continues. "No offense, but I think it's the whole 'Good Ol' Boys' effect."

"I'm sorry." It seems like an appropriate response. "If you wanted to become a CSI, I might be able to help you, but I'm useless when it comes to police."

Her face takes on what might be an offended look, and I wonder what I said wrong. "I wasn't asking you for _help_. I was just stating a fact."

I think I insulted her independence. "I didn't mean to, uh . . ."

"Insinuate that I can't get in on my own merit?"

Oh, wonderful. I've managed to alienate a complete stranger within half an hour of first meeting her. "I'm sorry." I start to shrug helplessly, but succeed only in jolting Sara's head. 

Her eyes open and she sits up. "Huh?" She rubs her jaw and looks up at me. "Was I drooling?"

I repress the urge to smile indulgently. "Nope, you were the epitome of sleep etiquette."

"Ok, good. What time is it? How much longer 'til we land?"

I look at my watch. "It's about eleven, home time. We're supposed to land at midnight, Vegas time, and 3AM East Coast time."

"Wow." She looks around the plane, taking in the sleeping passengers. "I slept that long?"

I nod. I feel like I should be trying to continue my conversation with Sharon so she doesn't get such a bad first impression of me. I look over at her. She's staring determinedly ahead, jaw tight. "Sharon?" I say, speaking a little louder than she and I had been.

She looks over at me and I'm struck by the resemblance her look bears to Sara's "angry face." "What?"

Sara looks at me curiously, no doubt suspicious of the fact that I would have made a friend so quickly. I glance at her, then back at the other woman. "I'd like you to meet Sara Sidle. She's with the crime lab also." I know I've already told Sharon that, technically, but it fits into the introduction. "Sara, this is Sharon . . . uh . . ." I realize I don't know her last name. "This is Sharon. She's going to the same conference we are. She's a police officer in Barstow."

Both women give me dirty looks and I don't even bother to try to figure out what I did wrong. I'm sure I'll hear about it in a few seconds. "I'm a _detective_ in Barstow," Sharon says. "Not just 'a police officer.' And it's nice to meet you." She doesn't sound like it's particularly nice to be meeting Sara, though she doesn't sound like she dislikes Sara on sight, either.

Sara glares at me for another second, then turns her attention to Sharon. "Yeah. Nice to meet you." Her voice is even more abrupt than Sharon's was. I feel bad female vibes flowing over me and across the aisle.

Neither woman says anything more, though Sara does look at me one more time with some unreadable emotion in her face. 

I pray for the plane to land before of these two decides to throttle me.


	6. Hidden plant, sleeping beauty

By the time we step off the plane, Sara's face no longer looks so drawn. She looks refreshed from her sleep, and the death-glare that had appeared when I introduced her to Sharon is pretty much gone. I know better than to ask her why it appeared in the first place, though – at least here.

I'm incredibly glad that our flight landed at a New York airport and not Newark, way down in New Jersey. I don't think I could last through an two-hour-long ride at this point. I'm completely exhausted, the adrenaline rush from being so close to Sara having worn off, and I'm just about ready to lie down on the nearest patch of clear floor and take a nap.

"Grissom?" Sara's looking at me with a furrowed brow. "You ok over there? You're walking like a zombie."

I blink slowly, trying to make my eyes focus on her. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little tired. Past my bedtime, and all that."

"Well, I'm awake, so at least one of us is. It's what, three in the morning here? I don't think you'll be too out of place with the sleepiness thing."

I nod wordlessly and just look at her, waiting for her to lead me somewhere. I can't remember the last time I was this tired. I always knew that Sara saps a lot of my energy, but this is ridiculous!

"Gris." She takes my arm and tugs, which immediately brings my attention back. She's touching me again. Granted, it's a purposeful touch, but I'm not up to paying attention to such small details. "Come on, just walk and I'll lead you. When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

I feel like the tables have been turned – usually it's me asking her that question. It's appropriate, though. I don't plan on telling her this, but I hardly slept last night either, so I'm pretty much 0 for 48. 

It's kind of nice to be taken care of, though, and I let her drag me through the terminal to retrieve our baggage, then outside to find a taxi. Taxis aren't exactly comfortable or sanitary to sleep in, and I struggle to stay awake until we reach our hotel. 

By the time we get there, thirty minutes later, I'm just barely hanging on to consciousness. It's really a curious feeling, somewhat like the floating feeling one would get from marijuana or a lot of alcohol. The vague sense of euphoria that comes with those intoxicants has also come with my exhaustion, and I'm smiling vapidly as Sara checks us in and pulls me to the elevator.

I lean my head back against the paneling and ponder the sensation of our rapid ascent. Sara leans against the opposite wall and watches me in a way that, were I at full mental strength, would make me very worried. She looks like she's about to laugh at me, and I muster up a few shreds of dignity, straighten my back, and force my eyes open wider. She notices this and meets my eyes, giving me a small smile. I smile back and move my gaze to the numbers flicking above the elevator door. Are we there yet?

We stop on twenty-two and Sara informs me that this is our floor. I follow obediently down the hall. She stops in front of room 2208 and nods to the room next door, 2210. "That one's yours." She hands me my card key and gives me a gentle push toward my door. "I'll get your suitcase," she adds when I look back confusedly. "Work on making your hands function enough to open that door in the meantime."

She's right – I do have to work at it, but I eventually get the card in the slot correctly and pull it open. As I step inside, I take stock of the accommodations: it looks like an average to above-average sort of hotel room, complete with generic painting above the bed and plastic-wrapped glasses on the desk. The only thing that seems out of place is a door in the wall facing the bed, and I puzzle over that for a few seconds until I realize that – in some sort of cosmic joke – Sara and I have the adjoining rooms I daydreamed about this morning. I should probably be nervous about this, but that would take too much energy, so I just look at the door for a few more seconds and shake my head blankly.

Before I get a chance to disengage my eyes from it, the door knocks. Or rather, someone knocks on the door – but that thought comes a split second after the first. I really am dangerously tired, I realize. I hope we don't have to be at the workshop early tomorrow morning.

The door knocks again and I realize that I've been ignoring the fact that there's someone behind it. It takes me a few seconds to figure out how to work the three locks on it, but I eventually manage to pull it open. 

Sara stands on the other side, once again studying me. "Still with us?" she chirps, waving a hand in front of my face. "Barely," she adds, answering her own question when I don't say anything after a few seconds. She grabs my wrist – her hands are freezing, I notice – and pulls. I'm beginning to feel like a dog on a leash. "_Move_, Grissom," she orders. "You have to come in here and get your suitcase, because it's heavy and I'm not going to waste my energy hauling it.

I allow her to pull me through the doorway. Her room looks exactly the same as mine, but reversed. This strikes me as amusing and I chuckle. Sara looks at me like I'm nuts. "Sit," she orders, pointing to the bed. "If you fall over, there's no way I'm going to be able to hoist you back into your room, especially not if you have a concussion from hitting the floor."

I sit and am immediately overtaken by the need to lie back on the soft bed, just for a few seconds. I glance at her and note that her back is turned and she appears to be doing something to my suitcase. Good, I can close my eyes. Just to rest them, of course – not to sleep or anything.

I open my eyes after what feels like moments and find an empty room. I look at the clock and discover that I've been out for half an hour. Where's Sara? I'm in her bed, I realize, feeling incredibly rude. Wherever she is, I should get out of here so she can go to sleep.

Standing up is a challenge, but I manage it eventually and stagger to the front door of her room. No, wait – there's something not right about that. I pause, thinking hard, and realize that I'm supposed to be going through another door. The bathroom door isn't the right one, I know that even if I'm still mostly unconscious, and I head for the third door in the room.

It's the one that connects my room to hers, I realize as I walk through it. Good for me, first step in the process of getting into my own bed is accomplished. Thankfully, once I cross the threshold it's a straight run from the door to the bed and I manage to keep myself from stumbling until I'm within comfortable falling distance of the mattress.

I hit the bed face-first and don't move for a second, gathering my will to climb under the covers. I'm not really awake to begin with, I realize, and unconsciousness is too close to even bother taking off my clothes. I just barely manage to kick off my shoes before I crawl under the undoubtedly dirty blanket and drop back to sleep.


	7. Alibi hate you

**A/N:** Just want to say a big THANK YOU to everyone who's been reviewing this story, especially Laura Katherine, who's given me some of the nicest reviews I've ever gotten J

The sound of curtains being yanked open, immediately followed by the stabbing sensation of bright light, wakes me up in the morning. At least, I think it's morning. I open my eyes groggily and squint at the newly-bared window. New York City stares back at me.

Sara's staring back at me too, I realize as I look away from the light. She's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, looking extremely comfortable, and she's watching me. "Good morning, sunshine," she announces, stepping away from the window and toward me.

I wrinkle my nose. "What time is it? It's still way too early."

"It's past ten," she says with a smile. "You were really tired."

That wakes me up. Past ten in the morning? Oh god, I hope I didn't just make us miss the first session of our workshop. I sit up, eyes wide, and say, "What time were we supposed to be there?"

"Relax. First session isn't until noon; you've got plenty of time." She sits on the edge of my bed, an act that feels intimate despite the fact that both of us are wearing all of our clothing. "Besides, the first one's always pointless anyway."

"Yeah, but if you're not at the first one you're at a disadvantage for the rest of the week." I give her a teasing look. "Don't try to talk your way out of this workshop, Sara. I've heard it all before."

"In that case . . ." She stands up and gives her hair a flip. "Why don't you head on into your room and get yourself showered and changed into clean clothes."

My room? I look at the door that connects the two rooms, then at the bed I'm sitting on. "My room?" I repeat, this time out loud.

"You fell asleep there last night. I figured it was easier just to leave you there and designate it as your room."

There's a problem here. I look around the room, thinking, then finally figure out what that problem is: "But where did you sleep, then? If I slept in both my room and yours over the course of the night?" A terrible thought hits me. Oh god . . . I didn't crawl into bed with her last night, did I? I want to drop through the floor. I want to fall down dead, right here.

The horror must show on my face, because Sara looks at me coolly. "Don't have a heart attack. I slept on the couch."

"Which couch?" I ask, looking again at the magical door.

"Mine."

Well now _that _doesn't help very much, does it? "Which?" I repeat.

She rolls her eyes. "This one. In here."

I want to believe her, but that just doesn't make sense. Why would she sleep on the couch in her own hotel room? 

Once again, she reads my mind. "I slept on the couch because I had a feeling you were going to wake up and switch rooms again," she explains as if I'm five years old. "I couldn't very well go to sleep in that bed" – she points to the other room – "because you were in there. I wasn't going to sleep on this bed" – she motions to the bed I'm on – "because if you came crawling in in the middle of the night, at least one of us was going to end up screaming like a little girl."

I wonder which of us she means. Her face gives no hint of who it is, and she simply shrugs. "Logic, Grissom."

Logic. Right. That thing that deserts me when I'm around her for extended periods of time.

 We make it to the conference room with ten minutes to spare. I'm hoping fervently that there's going to be lunch, since between Sara's disorganization and my sleeping late we didn't manage to get out of our rooms until just minutes ago and had no chance to eat anything.

I scan the room for anything resembling a banquet table and soon find one against the back wall. I grab Sara's arm – she hasn't eaten either – and make a beeline for the sandwiches I think I see. 

She looks at me, startled, as I nearly pull her off her feet. "Geez, Grissom, calm down. The sandwiches aren't exactly being devoured by wild-eyed linguists bearing swords. They'll still be there thirty seconds from now." She's right, but my stomach is still skeptical, so I let go of her and tell her to go find us seats at one of the small tables lined up in the room, and I'll bring her a sandwich in a few minutes.

Turns out there _are_ a few wild-eyed linguists (and non-linguists) roaming around the area, and I have to push my way through to get to the platters. I grab roast beef for myself and am looking for something with vegetation in it for Sara when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and take a step toward the tapper, expecting to see an impatient Sara waiting for her lunch.

It's not Sara. Sharon takes a large step backwards as my step forward brings me uncomfortably close to her. I immediately step back again and try to surreptitiously plan an escape. If she's going to start railing at me, I'm not hanging around!

To my surprise, she sounds almost apologetic as she greets me. "Hi, Gil," she says slowly. "It's, uh . . . good sandwiches, huh?"

I inwardly cringe. It's bad enough when I'm the only person who can't think of anything to say. When the person trying to converse with me can't either, we've got a real problem. "Good morning," I say politely, hoping that we'll just make our manners and then go our separate ways.

Neither of us says anything for a few seconds, and eventually it's too awkward for me to handle. I nod at her and mutter something about seeing her later, then turn to leave. 

Her hand on my arm stops me. "Hold on," she says. "I wanted to apologize to you. Turns out I'm just not very good at it."

"You don't owe me an apology, Sharon."

"Yeah, well, maybe not," she replies, staring fixedly at the middle of my chest, "but I probably should anyway. I don't think you meant any offense yesterday, so I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for going off on you. I deal with a lot of chauvinists in my department, so I tend to assume that I'll get that in life in general, too."

"It's not a problem," I assure her. "I didn't think my comment through before I said it." How nice, I managed to come up with an appropriate answer! If only I could do this with everyone else I speak to . . .

Another hand touches my arm and I look again at Sharon, assuring myself that she's still two feet away from me. Who is it this time – and what's with all the touching today, anyway?  The hand slides up to my shoulder. What the . . .?!

"Good morning, Sharon," Sara says with a fake smile and a saccharine tone. "Nice to see you again."

Sharon, to my relief, nods pleasantly. She looks to Sara, then me, and says, "Did you guys get settled in your rooms ok? I ended up having to switch rooms in the middle of the night because my first one had a broken pipe."

"Nope, our room . . .s are fine." Did I imagine the pause that I think I heard before Sara pluralized the word? She turns to me and says brightly, "Come on, Gil – we'd better sit down and scarf our lunch."

She just called me "Gil." When was the last time _that_ happened? Sara, like everyone in Las Vegas, almost never uses my first name, and I wonder what the occasion is. Guess that'll give me something to think about during the first break of the afternoon. I look at her and say obediently, "Okay," then look back at Sharon. "Nice seeing you again," I manage before Sara starts walking away, pulling me with the hand she still has on my shoulder.

I give Sharon an awkward nod and move to follow Sara. She answers my nod with an amused look. "I'll talk to you later," she tells me with a smirk. "First break."

I don't get a chance to nod this time before Sara yanks me away. I allow myself to be led back to my seat, then look at her questioningly. "You just pulled me away from _your_ lunch." I raise the roast beef sandwich in my hand and wave it toward the table we just left. "I've got mine."

She gives me an exasperated look and walks away from me, back toward the sandwiches. I wonder why she's so stressed out already, when she was perfectly happy twenty minutes ago in our room . . .s. Hmm, come to think of it, I can see why she would almost use the singular form. Since we had the adjoining door open pretty much all night and morning, it does rather seem like we're in a suite and not two separate rooms.

But that's another issue entirely. I watch her walk away, pondering her reactions. As far as I can tell, she's been fine until each time we encounter Sharon – the other woman seems to get Sara's back up. I wonder if they know each other somehow. Barstow isn't all that far from Vegas, and I know that Sara sometimes goes out of town on her nights off. Maybe they have a common acquaintance. A boyfriend?

The thought of Sara with a boyfriend, any boyfriend, rapidly drains away the content I've been feeling. The idea of a boyfriend about whom she cares enough to feud with another woman over is even less palatable.

A few minutes later Sara returns, a half-sandwich in each hand. They look like they're made up completely of lettuce. Doesn't strike me as appetizing, but I guess she likes it. She pushes aside her purse and agenda and slumps into the chair next to me, taking a hungry bite of one of the sandwiches, and sighs. "God, I hate these things."

I smile. _This_ is the Sara I know how to deal with. "Just don't fall asleep and don't start fighting with the lecturer," I advise, "and you'll be ok."

"It's not even that," she says, wrinkling her nose. "It's dealing with all these people. You know, having to make small talk and pretend I like people who are idiots."

I take a bite of my own sandwich, swallow, then say, "You could do what I do and just ignore the people as much as possible."

"Right." She snorts. "Because clearly you haven't struck up a friendship with that red-haired chick."

She must be talking about Sharon, since that's the only woman I've spoken more than two words to since we've been here. A chick, huh? Interesting – Sharon's got to be at least Sara's age, probably older. I wonder why Sara's using a less adult term to refer to her. "You mean Sharon?" I ask as though I don't know already. "She and I spoke on the plane, remember?"

She rolls her eyed and gives me a you're-dumber-than-I-thought look. "Uh, yeah, Gris. I'm fully aware of that. Thus my point about you making friends, which doesn't strike me as 'ignoring people as much as possible'."

I shrug. "She spoke to me first. I did say, 'as much as possible,' remember? I couldn't very well ignore her."

". . . done it enough times to me," I think I hear Sara mutter. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue on in that vein, but she simply takes another bite of her sandwich and looks away from me.

I quietly eat my own sandwich, figuring that eventually Sara will get fed up with my silence and spit out whatever's bothering her. My plan is foiled a minute later, though, as another woman about Sara's age – is everyone here at least ten years younger than me? I wonder, looking around the room – steps onto the makeshift stage and clears her throat.

The room gradually quiets down as we focus on her. When it's reasonably still in the room, the woman introduces herself as "Grace from the NYU Linguistics Department" and gives us an overview of how we're going to spend the next three days. It's doesn't sound much different from how I've spent innumerable workshops: some basic exercises the first day, followed by lectures and smaller group lessons in the following days.

"Grace from NYU" asks us to write two narratives of things we've done in the past few days, one true and one false. We're to try make the false one as believable as possible, as though we were trying to pass it off as an alibi. She leaves us with that assignment, telling us that we'll have until three PM to write the two tales.

Sara and I look at each other. I know she's wondering the same thing I am: how could it possibly take three hours to write two little stories? She shakes her head and shrugs, digging a pen out of her purse. "Might as well get started."

**A/N:** I did consider having them wake up together, but I just so hate doing the predictable thing that ultimately I couldn't make myself do it. Gotta be strangely creative…it's an obsession or something!


	8. Little white lies

I look down at the bare pad of paper lying in front of me. I have an idea of what I'm going to write, but beginnings are always so difficult. I spend about five minutes doing the staring thing again, during which time Sara is scribbling madly on her own pad. Her brows are furrowed, but a smile keeps appearing on her lips. I wonder what she's writing. I wonder whether I'll get to see it when she's done.

Then again, maybe I'd regret it if I did. She could be writing a lie about how she enjoyed our kiss yesterday. She could be writing the truth about how she hates having to spend time with me. Hell, she could be writing that she's actually a spy for the CIA – and be telling the truth! – for all I know.

This isn't helping me. I determinedly put my pen to the paper and tap it a few times, waiting for inspiration to strike. I look back up and stare into space. Do I want to do the truth or the lie first? I decide that the lie will be easier, because I won't have to worry about censoring it where appropriate, so I return my attention to my paper and start writing:

_I live in __Las Vegas__, otherwise known as __Sin__City__, and in my line of work I see a whole lot of those sins. Occasionally I'm even the victim of one, like this weekend. It was __11:30__ at night – __midday__ to my body clock – and I was walking down the Strip in front of __Treasure Island__ looking for the policeman who was supposed to lead me to my scene in the hotel lobby. He wasn't anywhere in sight, though, so I kind of leaned back against the fence separating the sidewalk from the private property, and looked around for him closer._

This is sounding good, I think. Maybe I should be writing books instead of prodding dead people with tweezers.

On second though, maybe not. I start writing again:

_I still didn't see him, and I was beginning to get really annoyed now. I was just about to start walking to the hotel myself to find _someone_ to take me to the scene when I felt someone touch my arm._

Now there's something I really have been experiencing lately, I realize with a smile. Lots of arm-touching.

_I turned around expecting to maybe see the cop, but instead there was this little old lady with a huge knife. It seemed surreal, and things happened so fast that I'm not sure I remember it all, but I jumped back and she kind of poked the knife forward, just to threaten me I think. She told me to give her my wallet. I was still hoping for the policeman to show up, so I tried to stall her as long as I could, but she started waving the knife again and I gave it up. She gave me back my credit cards, though, for some strange reason. Polite thief, I guess._

_Just as she was happily strolling down the street, the cop appeared next to me and asked if I was ready to go. I didn't want to look like an idiot who just got robbed by some old lady, so I just shrugged and went with him._

There. Event described, and rather artfully if I do say so myself. I think it's just ridiculous enough to be believable, and I'm eager to know if I'm right. Still two hours to go until we turn these in, I see when I look at the clock. Maybe I ought to stop gloating and start working on experience number 2.

Truth is more difficult than fiction. What in the world do I have to write that doesn't involve Sara or Sharon (both of whom, if mentioned, would piss Sara off royally)? I could describe brushing my teeth or something, I suppose; Grace didn't say we couldn't describe something trivial. At the same time, though, that's going to make me look like I couldn't think of anything to write – and I'm really trying to curtail my talent at making myself look stupid around Sara.

What if I write about something that's so innocuous that, even if it does involve Sara, she couldn't get angry about it?

Then again, what do I have that's that innocuous?

I could write about doing my crossword on the plane, and her sharing her candy. Those were both innocent activities. I tap my pen against my chin, trying to think of a way to make this sound interesting yet benign.

_I don't really enjoy airplane trips, I write. Many people get a thrill out of it, or at least find a way to occupy themselves. I'm not one of them. I get antsy when I'm stuck in a cramped, dirty seat, surrounded by cramped, dirty people for extended periods of time. It's usually worse when I travel with someone I know, because there's always that strange obligation each person feels to entertain the other._

_I wasn't particularly looking forward to the flight from __Las Vegas__ to this workshop, in __New York__, and even less so because I was traveling with someone else. So when Sara and I got settled on the plane, I was rather uncomfortable._

_It turns out that entertainment wouldn't be a problem. Sara's perfectly capable of entertaining herself without depending on me_

I stop writing and reread the last few sentences. I think I'm inching past that point of innocuous-ness. I should probably just scratch out that whole beginning and start over right at the point where I was struggling with 13 down. I draw a thick line through my words, then scribble over them to cover it more in case whoever reads this is interested in my mistakes.

_I don't really enjoy airplane trips_, I write. _Many people get a thrill out of it, or at least find a way to occupy themselves. I'm not one of them. I get antsy when I'm stuck in a cramped, dirty seat, surrounded by cramped, dirty people for extended periods of time. _

_I always bring a book of puzzles for times like that, so when I was on the plane to __New York__ yesterday, I spent a large part of the flight working on a crossword. It was . . ._

I stop again and scratch out the whole thing. This is just ridiculous! I had no trouble writing a lie, so why can't I write the truth? I raise my head and steal a glance at Sara. She looks up from her paper at the same time and offers me a smile.

I have a sudden urge to ask her which of us would have been screaming if we'd woken up together.

That would be a very bad thing to ask at this moment. A bad thing to ask at any moment, actually. I sigh and roll; my eyes toward the ceiling, searching for inspiration. Sara's still writing. What's she writing that makes her look so happy? She doesn't seem to be having any trouble with writers' block.

Then again, she's not the one with a guilty conscience.

"Fifteen minutes," Grace announces from the front of the room. What? Wait, when did that happen? Where did the last hour-and-a-half go? I've got to write something now, or be left with a blank paper to explain.

_I like doing crossword puzzles_, I dash off_. __And I brought a book of them on the plane out here yesterday. I spent a large part of the flight doing them while my seatmate, a coworker, entertained herself. The book has fifty of the crossword puzzles, with some logic and word puzzles thrown in between them. I've already finished forty-eight of them during previous trips and just boring moments of my life, and I packed the book determined to finish those last two before I leave __New York__._

_I was working on puzzle number 48, struggling with clue 13 down, when my seatmate, whose name is Sara, leaned over and told me that the answer was "anaphor." The thing is, she's not known to be that great at crosswords, so when I considered her answer and realized that it was right, I was a little surprised._

_I must have looked at her in a way that told her that, because she looked a little annoyed and told me that the only reason she had told me the answer was because my stomach was growling and keeping her from concentrating. I had been concentrating so hard that I hadn't even noticed, and I was a little embarrassed that it'd been audible._

_There wasn't much I could do about it, though, because I hadn't brought any food on the plane with me. I was telling Sara that I could wait to eat when she threw some candy at me._

I know I'm getting parts of this wrong. My memory isn't what it used to be, and I hope I'm not getting things completely backwards – but I don't have enough time left to worry about that. I look at the clock – five minutes left.

_I don't eat much candy, so I was hesitant to try these things, but she insisted and I discovered that they weren't too bad. My stomach soon subsided and Sara went to sleep while I watched a movie._

Well, that's the end of my story, but it doesn't sound right without some sort of conclusion to it. Ummm . . .

_The moral of this story is: candy bugs are just as fun as real ones._

There! I slap my pen down and check the clock again. Finished, with 90 seconds to spare! I hear a muffled laugh on my right and turn to look at Sara, who grins at me.

"You look pleased with yourself," she tells me, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"I'm not usually a storyteller," I remind her. "I'm impressed that I was able to finish two stories in the time we got." I glance down at the closed notebook on her lap. "Did you finish yours?"

"Yup – and in only three-quarters of the time it took you."

"May I see them?"

"Of course not, Grissom! What if I wrote about something I don't want you to know about?" She paused, looking like she wants to take those words back. "Besides," she plows on after a moment, "I think they're going to be part of whatever exercise the moderator has us doing next."

Sure enough, as Sara was finishing her sentence, Grace stepped back onto the stage. "Ok, ladies and gentlemen," she said, clapping her hands once, "let's get going again. Now, I want you to take out your lies. We're going to analyze them together."

Oh no. Does this mean I'm going to have to read aloud? I hope not. On the other hand, maybe I'll get to hear Sara's story now.

"First," Grace continues, "We're going to do some line counting. What that means is I want you to count the number of lines you wrote as exposition of the event, the number of lines you wrote about the event itself, and the number of lines you wrote as follow-up to the event."

Boooooring. How is this going to tell us if someone's lying, anyway? I look over at Sara again, hoping she'll share in my look of amused exasperation. She doesn't, however. In fact, she doesn't even look up from her counting. I wonder what she's concentrating so hard on.

I give up on that after a few seconds and look down at my own story. One, two . . . I have ten lines leading up to the "robbery," seven about the crime itself, and three about the aftermath. That must be good, I think. Exposition is supposed to be very important, right?

"Everyone finished?" Grace says. "Good. Now I want you to do the same thing for your true statements."

I focus back on my paper. Six, eleven, and five this time. It seems strange that the counts for the truth are so different from the counts for the lie, and I suspect that it will turn out to be a way to distinguish between the two.


	9. Lies and logic

A/N: Remember, the line counts are for exposition, actual story, and follow-up to the story

A/N 2: Sara will NOT disappear from this show if I have anything to say about it! Save George and Jorja!

"Now write those numbers down," Grace continues after a moment, "because we'll be using them later."

Later, eh? I bet I'm right about the counts indicating deception!

"What we're going to do now is swap papers and rate each others' stories."

Sara's eyes widen and she tenses up as she hears Grace go on to say, "I want you all to switch papers with one of the people sitting at your table. If you have an odd number, you can switch with someone at the next table instead."

Our table has only Sara and myself. I guess this means I'm going to get to read what she wrote, after all; I do my best not to smile too widely when I realize this. Wouldn't want to scare her away.

The instructor drones on and I listen to her with only half an ear as I contemplate what Sara may have written. "Read the other person's statements," I half-hear, "one at a time. Make notes of anything in the text that you think hints at whether they're lying or telling the truth, and when you finish reading I want you to pick which one you think is which, and represent your confidence in your decision by rating each on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being 'This is just a guess, I'm not at all sure that I picked correctly,' and ten being 'There is absolutely no question in my mind that I am correct.'"

A youngish man in the third row raises his hand. "What sort of things should we be looking for as we read? That will tell us if the writer's lying or not, I mean?"

"Use your instinct," Grace says. "I want to know how accurate your picks are before I go on and teach you the technique. Consider this a pre-test." Groans fill the room at this pronouncement, but not from me and not from Sara. We're the type who like testing ourselves.

I hold out my hand to her. "Hand it over, Sara."

She gives me a dirty look and twitches her papers backwards, away from me. I just leave my hand where it is, knowing that she'll give in within a few seconds.

I'm right, and with a huff she slides it across the table. I quickly pull it out of her reach, then slide my own two sheets toward her.

"Half an hour for this part, ladies and gents," announces Grace as she eases herself into her seat.

_I carry a gun, _her first story starts. _I'm a crime scene investigator, and since we sometimes walk into iffy situations, we're assigned the weapons. Unfortunately, the gun didn't do me any good until I was given it, four years ago. Until then, I was on my own at crime scenes – and they can be dangerous places._

_It happened about six years ago. I had recently moved up the ranks in my team, and so I was sent to my first solo case, a home invasion that wasn't supposed to be any trouble. Of course, they always say that._

[I draw a dividing line between this paragraph and the next, deciding that this is the point where the exposition stops and the story begins, and make a note: 7 lines of exposition.]

_Things started going wrong from the moment I walked in the front door. I couldn't find any policemen, when the scene normally would have been full of them. I'm not a stupid person, but I had been assured this was a no-danger case, so I entered the house anyway._

_So did the burglar. Not that I saw him or knew he was there, at least until he stuck the knife against the back of my neck. "Get out," he ordered. I didn't really pause to think about it then. I was young and . . . ok, yes, I was stupid. All action, no thought. I turned around as fast as I could, and tried to knock the knife out of his hand by hitting his arm with my own. I caught him by surprise, and the knife went flying before he could react. He swung his arm around a second too late to catch it, and instead made contact with my cheek. The knife clattered down about five feet away from us, and neither of us moved for a second while I tried control the pain from my cheek and he tried to control his shock._

[No way. Sara would never be that stupid. She knows better than to challenge an armed man now, and she knew it when she wasn't working for me, too. Besides, I think this sounds too dramatic to be real. I adjust my opinion to strong skepticism, and I read on with suspicion.]

_I couldn't believe it when I looked at him. The burglar couldn't have been more than eighteen, if that. He had the lanky figure of a boy who hadn't quite filled out yet, and the panicky/angry expression you could expect from a thwarted teenager was clear on his face. He looked like he was ready to tackle me, and it belatedly hit me that though this guy might weigh less than me, but he was probably a lot stronger. Then it was my turn to panic. I tried to hide it when I locked eyes with him and spoke:_

[Well, if anyone were to notice such minute things in an emergency situation, I guess it would be her. My mental scales tip slightly in favor of truth.]

_"Go," I told him. "I'll pretend you weren't here." An astonished half-smile appeared on his face before I dodged closer to the forgotten weapon and added, "And leave the knife here." The smile dropped off. "Get the FUCK out of here," I growled, my panic coming out as a sort of loud bravado, "before the cops come back from searching the backyard and you're screwed." A bluff, but an effective one._

[It may be a small thing to notice, but Sara doesn't use the f-word. She must have just put it in here for effect.]

_That did it. The fear was back on his face, and I felt sure he was imagining what his parents would say when he called them from jail, charged with a felony. His eyes narrowed for a second as he considered, and then finally:_

_"You BETTER pretend you didn't see me, lady," he said, and thrust his chest out and his arms back in a you-want-some-of-this gesture. "Or I'll come back for you." The intended effect of those last words was weakened, though, since he said them while hightailing it out of the house._

[Typical. She gets herself into hot water, then gets distracted by feeling bad for the victim. I have a hard time believing that a man – or boy – who walked into a house ready to stick a knife into someone's neck would throw it away on command and flee. I almost don't think this could be her true story.]

[I draw another line here after reading the first sentence of the next paragraph. End of story, beginning of follow-up. Note: 31 lines of story.]

_I don't know who was more scared by that night, him or me. I definitely came out of it better off, with a minor fracture in my cheekbone, than he did, after being thrown in jail anyway because of the fingerprints he left on the knife._

[I'd know if someone had ever broken one of her bones. And if I didn't know for some reason, either Nick or Catherine would. Impossible for her to hide something like that.]

_I tried to shake the memory after that, knowing that I couldn't go back to work the next night if I was afraid of it happening again. And for the most part, I did shake the memory. Sometimes I still have nightmares about what could have happened, but I handle them. I don't need anyone to tell me how bad it could have been, though I can think of at least one friend who could probably lecture me for three straight days about it._

[Me? A pointed barb? But she called me a friend! Er . . . did she? Who knows . . .]

_I'm older and somewhat wiser now. I don't walk into empty scenes, and I always make sure I'm armed and backed up by police. And I guess I have a skinny, violent kid to thank for that. How…weird._

[Note: 11 lines of follow-up.]

I look again at this story. I don't think it's the truth. At least, I don't think I think that. I'm just worried that I'm judging based on what I know about _her_, and not by what she wrote.

Maybe I'll just reserve judgment until I read her second statement. I flip over the statement I just finished, put my notes aside, and turn my attention to statement #2:

_One night after work I realized that I needed to do some grocery shopping. The nearest store is almost half an hour from my apartment (that tends to happen once you get outside the city limits), so I headed straight there. _

_The parking lot seemed dark – I found out later that almost half of the lights were burned out – so I hurried into the Kroger's. The darkness of the night and the parking lot were making me think of the scum that I know from personal experience stalks places like that._

[Oh god, I'll never forget that night. I was terrified for her. It makes sense that she'd have learned from that experience, and be wary in similar situations. My first guess for this statement is that this is the truth.]

_I got milk, bread, cereal, and some other staples, all the while keeping a mostly unconscious eye on the space around me, watching for anyone following me. In the cereal aisle, I thought I spotted someone, and by the time I hit the ice cream aisle I was sure: someone was stalking me. I quickly finished up my shopping and made for the checkout counter. After paying I was handed two paper bags containing my items. It made me extremely uneasy to not have at least one of my hands free, so as I walked into the parking lot I was juggling the bags, trying to get my right hand into my pocket to get my keys, and trying to keep an eye on my surroundings, all at once._

[Typical Sara, aware of the danger but not concerned enough to ask someone to escort her out.]

[Note: 15 lines of exposition]

_Suddenly I was shoved up against my car, face-first. I couldn't see who had pushed me, but I assumed it was the man I had seen in the store. His purpose became perfectly clear when a hand swatted the bags out of my hands, scattering my food all over the ground, and an obviously male body pressed against me, pinning me firmly to the car._

[His purpose? Does she mean . . . oh no. She can't mean that. I can feel my face get hot and my hands clench as I'm forced to think of Sara as a possible rape victim.]

_This was fine. I could deal with this, I was trained in self defense. I was preparing a full assault – which would include throwing my head back into his nose, stomping on his foot, and elbowing him in the diaphragm – when someone else's hands grabbed hold of my forearms. I was trapped!_

[Pros: She was preparing to attack. That's perfectly Sara. Cons: I don't think the words "I'm trapped" would ever even occur to her!]

_My attackers still hadn't said anything, only growled and heavy-breathed in my ear. Now I was really scared, and I started trying to think of a Plan B, but none was coming to mind. Then I heard footsteps from a third person. I figured it was another of the punks attacking me, but then I heard grunts and thumps that told me that the one of the three was now fighting the other two. There was still the weight of someone's body holding me to the car, so all I could do was wait._

[Sara doesn't know the meaning of the word "wait"! Either she's trying to make herself sound better, or it's a lie.]

_It got quiet, but the weight still didn't move. Finally, whoever it was moved to push his body off mine, and I was ready. I twisted around and threw a punch, but to my consternation my fist was stopped inches away from the guy's face. I took a good look at him. This WAS the man I'd seen inside the store! I started struggling, and for the first time since he'd pinned me, the man spoke:_

_"Relax. I'm the good guy. I'm a cop."_

[How pat that sounds! How would she know if he's really a cop or not?]

[Note: 20 lines of story]

_I was skeptical, obviously, but he showed me his badge and explained that he'd seen the two men following me in the store, and in turn had followed them. His name was Jim, and ever since that night we've been dating._

[Dating?? No, I'd know if she were seeing someone . . . wouldn't I? Of course I would. Well, unless she didn't want me to know about it . . . which is entirely possible. Oh hell. But a cop?? Surely I'd know!]

[Note: 3 lines of follow-up]

Doesn't the girl know how to write anything but drama?! I glower at this second story. It sounds just as improbable as the first one! Pure melodrama!

…But what if it's true?

Both stories strike me as improbable, in many of the same ways. So I'm left this decision: is it more likely that Sara would go into an unsecured scene, or that she's been dating someone who, incidentally, comes across as a hero?

Oh yeah, and there's also those line counts. I go back and check. The story about the young punk and the unsecured scene has a count of 7-31-11. The story about the heroic cop has a count of 15-20-3.

I decide to approach this logically, taking my own statements as known quantities. My true statement is 6-11-5 and my lie is 10-7-3.

Thus: a known true statement has its bulk within the "story" part, followed by the exposition, and the smallest part of its content is the follow-up; a known false statement has the most exposition, followed by story, followed by follow-up. In both cases, follow-up comes in last place, so I can safely drop that from my calculations because it's equal on both sides of the equation.

I pause to pick my pencil back up, then realize that I lost track of my logic. Let's see . . . oh, right. Based on my admittedly small sample, I project that a true statement will have more story than exposition, while a false statement will have more exposition than story. Now to apply this rule to Sara's statements.

Damn, both of her statements have more story lines than exposition lines. Well, I can wave goodbye to making this decision based on logic!

So . . . what's more likely, based on what I know about Sara? I find this decision process somewhat traumatizing! Ok, I need to try for a modicum of objectivity. What do I know about Sara? She's highly intelligent. She's sharp, in general. She has an active interest in men . . . me in particular, at least in the past. She's one of the few members of our team who _hasn't_ had a suspect get the drop on them at a scene.

Sigh.

So she's got a tendency toward men, and absolutely no evidence to show she might enter a scene unwisely. Does this mean I think Sara has a boyfriend? I'd prefer to not think those words. Confidence level? The evidence is irrefutable; I'm forced to give it an 9.

The end of this exercise cannot come soon enough. Come on, Grace – move it!


	10. To tell the truth

**A/N: OK so I'm sure you've all noticed that I disappeared for the better part of the past year. This means that I haven't seen the second half of S4, and the only S5 episode I've seen is the opener. I tried to keep this chapter time-neutral, hoping not to violate any new canon facts, but please excuse any that have slipped through. Oh, and both Sammy's Noodle Shop and the peanut butter sandwich restarant (whose name I can't remember) do, indeed, exist in southern Manhattan. I recommend Sammy's highly.**

"Ok," Grace's voice breaks into thoughts five minutes later. "All done? Great, we'll move on. Now, would each of you reclaim your own stories for a moment and mark the back of each with a T for 'true' or an F for 'false,' then give them back to your partner story-side up. Partners, don't turn the papers over to check."

A short commotion of shuffing papers and scratching pens fills the room, shortly replaced by snorts and muffled laughter as everyone checks their partner's evaluations. I'm not surprised to see that Sara got mine right, considering that she'd been present for the true one and knew very well that she had shared her gummi worms. After quickly confirming this, I turn my attention to her, hoping for a sign of whether I'd gotten her statements right or wrong. A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth - not good.

After a few seconds she raises her eyes to meet mine. I can tell she's trying to keep her face impassive. "So . . . how'd I do?" I ask weakly.

"Everyone's looked at their papers?" interrupts Grace. "Now I want you to spend from now until lunch - that's about half an hour - discussing why you wrote what you did, why you made the decisions you did about your partner's papers, and what the right answers are. Try to come up with a formula to diffentiate true from false."

"Let's start with you," Sara suggests sadistically. She knows my statements hardly need to be discussed; she just likes torturing me. "Where'd you come up with 'I was mugged by a little old lady'?"

I shrug. "First thing that came to mind."

"A psychological basis, perhaps?" she asks playfully. "Perhaps you're intimidated by the type of woman who doesn't look threatening, because you can't pigeonhole her?"

I resist the urge to give her a Look. "Not the last time I checked."

"Nightmares about little old ladies?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"I told you, it was the first thing that came to mind!" I say in exasperation. "I do _not_ have some deep-seated psychological horror of females - of _any_ type."

She smirks. "I might argue with that...but I won't. Let's move on to why you picked something so boring for your true statement."

I sigh. "It was the only thing I could think of that wouldn't implicate anyone I know in something they'd rather not hear told."

"Are you telling me that sharing candy was the only non-threatening thing in your mental inventory?"

"Well, under these circumstances, I thought..."

"What circumstances?"

"These." I wave my hand toward the room at large. "Large public gathering of people we don't know."

She seems to accept that. "Ok, so under these circumstances you thought...what?"

"Honestly, Sara, I don't think Grace meant 'interrogate' when she said 'dicsuss'."

"I'm _attempting_ to discuss, Grissom," she says tightly. "But talking to you is like pulling teeth, as a rule."

"Bloody, painful, and full of horrific noises?"

"Something like that," she says, but she seems to relax again. "Now tell me."

Tell her what? I think back. Oh, right...she wants me to tell her why that was the only safe story I could think of. "Would you rather have had me tell them about the rigamarole I had to go through to get you here in the first place, perhaps? Or maybe about..." I pause, trying to think of something. "...About your attitude toward Sharon? Or how about last night in the hotel room..."

Her hand slashes through the air, cutting me off. "There _are_ things in your life that don't involve me. You could have discussed one of those, something that wouldn't have been completely transparent when I tried to evaluate its truth."

"My life centers around CSI, Sara, and you know how gossip moves in there. Anything noteworthy in my life would have happened there, and would probably have been passed on to you long ago."

"Not everything."

I look at her with raised eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Like those two weeks you took off last year? Your 'vacation time,' when we all know that you don't take vacations?"

"Enough." I don't want to get into that. Even if I'm no longer afraid of losing my hearing, I don't want Sara - or anyone - to know that I handled it so badly.

She looks at me curiously, and I can almost see her making a mental note to press me more about my time off when she has me alone. "Oookay..."

"Let's talk about your stories. Did I get it right?"

She smiles. "First, tell me your logic."

"You made it difficult. I tried to compare the line counts of your stories to my own, but the pattern in yours didn't match the pattern in mine."

"So how'd you decide then?" She reaches over and grabs her papers back. " 'Doesn't use the f-word'?" she reads off her story about the suspect attack. "_That_ was your logic?"

"There's more," I say defensively.

She keeps reading. " 'She wouldn't be that stupid'? 'Sara doesn't know the meaning of the word "wait"'?" She looks up at me. "Tell me how you really feel," she says sarcastically.

"I told you, your line counts didn't match mine. I had to go on my intuition and what I know about you."

"And your intuition tells you that I wouldn't go impulsively into a scene but I would date some guy who claimed to be a cop?"

"Well when you put it like that..."

She looks down at the second story again and reads on: " 'Typical Sara'? 'Perfectly Sara'? Guess you know me pretty well, huh."

This isn't headed anywhere good, that much I can tell. "I _told_ you, I just had to rely on my intuitions."

"How long have you known me, Gris?"

I think for a moment. "Ten, twelve years?"

"And these represent what you think you know about me?"

"In these limited circumstances..."

"Answer," she orders.

I glare at her. "I thought I said that this wasn't supposed to be an interrogation. Let's move on, and you tell me if I got it right or not." The more I have to nag her about it, the more nervous I get that I had the right answers after all.

"What do you think?"

"Obviously I think what I wrote were the right answers, or else I'd have answered the opposite." I look at her expectantly. "Just tell me."

Rather than do as I ask, she looks at me, cocking her head to the side, and appears to ponder her options. Then, slowly, she puts one sheet of paper back on the table and holds the other out to me, turning it over so I see the large 'T' on it but not which story it is. "Last chance to change your guess. Going once . . . twice . . ." Just as I'm ready to jump up from my chair and wrestle her for the damn paper, she turns it face up again and drops it in front of me.

I read the first line: "_I carry a gun. I'm a crime scene investigator, and since we sometimes walk into iffy situations, we're assigned the weapons. Unfortunately, the gun didn't do me any good until I was given it, four years ago. Until then, I was on my own at crime scenes - and they can be dangerous places."_

Its the story about her being attacked by a robbery suspect - not the story about the policeman-cum-hero. I try not to let out an audible sigh of relief.

When I look back up at her, she seems to be studying me. "Guess you don't know me as well as you thought," she offers, and I can't tell if her tone indicates disappointment or sarcasm.

"I never claimed to understand you."

"That's true," she says flatly, "you didn't."

"So, uh," I begin, trying to pull us out of whatever conversational morass we appear to have fallen into, "you really let a suspect get the drop on you?"

"Yeah. I was young."

"I'm not exactly one to judge," I remind her. "A suspect got the drop on me and Nick, and I can't even say it was because I was young."

"You really thought I was dating some cop? Don't you think you'd have noticed if there was always the same officer at scenes with me? Not to mention that the only policeman I know named 'Jim' is Brass." She pulls a face and adds, "And I'm definitely _not_ dating him."

"Well I didn't know how long ago this happened," I argue. "It could have been in California, in which case I obviously wouldn't know him."

She gives me a disbelieving look. "Do you realize that if you follow your own logic, you're saying that I was cheating on my hypothetical boyfriend, not once but twice? For long periods of time?"

Hmm. There was that EMT; she has a point. But who's the second? I ask her this and her open expression suddenly closes. "Nevermind. Suffice it to say you're wrong. There were enough inconsistent details in the story that you could have figured that out, even without thinking about the actual boyfriend part."

I get the hint loud and clear. She doesn't want to tell me who else she dated. Or is dating. I sigh inwardly. Maybe I can e-mail Catherine. No, I decide mere seconds later. Contacting Catherine and attempting to find out about Sara's social life is just a sure way to start a rumor that she's seeing someone and that Grissom is concerned with that fact.

"Sessions's over," a female voice says from behind my left shoulder. "You guys want to get some lunch?"

Without even looking behind me, I can tell from Sara's face that the voice must belong to my red-haired friend. "Sharon," I say, turning to her. "Who were you working with?"

"Some guy from Canada," she says carelessly. "Apparently he teaches this stuff too, which pretty much defeated the purpose of the exercise."

"Gee, that's too bad," Sara cuts in. "Grissom and I were just having a really good time discussing the truth about _our_selves."

We were? I wish she had told _me_ that! I just nod and smile.

"You guys like Chinese?" Sharon offers. We both nod, and she continues: "I hear there's a really good place a little bit further north. Sixth Ave and West Eleventh. It's called Sammy's Noodle Shop."

I start to accept her offer, but cut myself off when I feel Sara's thumbnail pressing into the skin of my forearm. "Sorry," she says sweetly, "but we already have plans."

"Sara..." I begin, determined to clear up whatever feud is going on around me.

"Oh, ok." Sharon doesn't sound terribly disappointed. Maybe she was just being polite. "Enjoy yourselves, then. I'll see you after lunch." Without waiting for an answer, she turns and walks toward a man, presumably the Canadian she had mentioned.

"What, can't she make up her mind?" The acid in Sara's voice comes though loud and clear.

"Make up her mind about what?" I say tentatively.

"About who she's chasing."

Chasing? I blink. "I beg your pardon?"

"She should know - at _her_ age - that you can't go after two men at the same place at the same time."

This is interesting. "I don't think she's 'after' anyone, Sara. I think she's just being friendly. And she can't be much older than you."

She snorts. "Doubtful. I'm female too, you know. I can tell these things. She's after you."

She says this with such vehemence that I'm puzzled. It's not at all like Sara to talk about who's after whom, and even if it were, it's certainly not information she'd ever consider sharing with me. At a loss for a response, I just look at her and shrug. "So, uh . . . where do you want to get lunch?"

"I hear there's a good peanut butter sandwich restaurant around here."

"A...what?"

She grins. "Peanut butter sandwich. You can get just about anything you want put into a PB&J - with or without the J."

It sounds a little iffy to me, but I'm not going to get into a fight with her about it. "Lead on," I say, scooping up my notebook and turning back to face her.

A smile spreads across her face and she nods at me. "Great."


	11. Transformation

I look dubiously at the peanut butter and banana sandwich Sara ordered me to get. Legumes and fruit just seems...wrong!

"Eat," she commands, and takes a hearty bite out of her own peanut butter and fluff sandwich. I still don't understand why she was allowed to get the sandwich that makes sense, and I got stuck with this...thing.

I shudder one more time to be sure she gets my point, then take a tentative bite. It tastes...unusual. Chewing experimentally, I decide that it's not nearly as foul as I expected, but it's still not something I'll be taking for lunch any time soon. "S'okay," I mumble through a mouthful of the sticky stuff.

She licks a glob of fluff off of the side of her hand and grins at me, mimicking my "okay" in a breathy, wishy-washy voice.

Hmph. Miffed at her mimicry, I decide to give in to the sudden sandwich-stealing urge when it hits me, and I snag her fluffernutter off her plate. I even manage to take a bite before she can protest.

"Hey!" she whines. "No fair!" With a playful look, she says, "Now I'm gonna have to…" Instead of finishing her sentence, she reaches over and grabs my first sandwich out of my hand. "Hah, so there!"

I contemplate the scene: me, sitting at one side of the table, holding her fluffernutter in a death grip, and her, sitting across from me and grinning around a mouthful of banana. Hmm. I see no reason to disrupt the current balance - I have the sandwich I wanted, anyway. As a peace signal, I touch my sandwich to hers in a jaunty toast. "Here's to sandwich swapping."

Sara raises an eyebrow, hoists her own sandwich, and replies, "And here's to hotel-room swapping."

She seems amused by my reaction to the forgotten events of this morning when I stutter, "To . . . what? No, this morning wa - . . ." Noting her amused visage, I stumble on for another few seconds, then pause, take a deep breath, and aim for speaking coherently: "Right! That was an interesting introduction to New York, I have to say."

"We'll have to work out who belongs in which room with what stuff after the end of the session today." Now _that_ will be more like what I pictured during my traveler's daydreams - us going back and forth between our rooms, bumping into each other, laughing . . . perhaps hinting at certain things or telling jokes about others . . .

The rest of the day's workshop goes quickly. We learn that I was right - line counts are supposed to be useful in detecting falsehood. I smirk across the table at Sara, vindicated.

When we're finally released for the day, Sara hops out of her chair and starts gathering the pencils and papers we've scattered across our space. I, moving more slowly, am just about to stand up when I sense someone approaching. I look over my shoulder and spot Sharon making her way toward me. A quick glance at Sara assures me that she's seen the other woman too. Uh-oh.

I stand, placing myself between the two. "Sharon," I say politely, trying to subtly signal her with my eyes to stay away. She smiles brightly and keeps coming.

"Sharon!" Sara squeals in my ear, a bright smile plastered across her face. "How _are_ you? Did you have a fun day with your Canadian?"

Sharon and I exchange looks. She's obviously taken aback, and I don't blame her. "Hi there, Sara," she finally manages. "My day was good, thanks for asking. Did you guys enjoy yours?"

I step in before Sara can speak. "It was interesting. I never realized our writing said so much about our intentions."

"Me either. So, do you guys have plans for tonight? I've heard rumors that there's a cocktail party in the hotel for the workshop attendees."

I look at Sara. Sara looks at me. I know what we're both thinking: _Does this mean we have to dress up?_

"Uh," Sara begins, caught too much by surprise to worry about her usual hostility, "we didn't know that there was going to be anything fancy. I don't think . . ." She glances at me again. "I don't think I have anything formal enough."

The prospect of seeing Sara dressed up intrigues me, now that I think about it. I think for a second. "You know, we're in New York. I bet if you can't put something together from what you packed, you can find a store to buy a dress in."

I'm rewarded with the look of death. She's wondering what in the world is possessing me to want to participate in this. I give her a slight smile and she heaves a sigh. "_Fine_." Looking at Sharon, she adds, "What time do we need to be ready?"

"Why don't I meet you guys by the lobby elevators at, say, 6:30?" Sharon suggests.

Sara and I nod in unison. "Come on," she says, tugging on my sleeve. "I need to figure out whether I have something to wear or not."

While Sara digs through her suitcase, I putter around our rooms, sorting out her stuff from mine and trying to determine which room is whose. She casts me a few curious looks, but mostly leaves me to myself, muttering to herself about each article of clothing she pulls out.

"What do you think of this?" she asks out loud, catching me by surprise.

"Me?"

"You're the only other person in the room, Grissom. Do you think this is too casual?"

She's holding up a tunic-length shirt, molding it to her body above her usual black trousers. How am _I_ supposed to know whether it's appropriate or not? I manage to mumble, "Uhh . . . I think it's ok."

She looks down at herself and then back up at me. "You'd say that if I was holding up a potato sack, wouldn't you."

Well, she's got a point. I nod cautiously.

"Figures," she sighs. "I think I'm going to have to go shopping." Tossing the shirt she had been holding up back onto the bed, she stomps her foot and huffs. "Damn it, I _hate_ shopping for girly clothes!"

"Why don't you just wear what you were holding up, then? It's not like anyone is going to care about what Sara Sidle, in particular, is wearing."

"I'm going to care, even if no one else does! Besides, the other women always judge each other by the clothes they're wearing. If I walk in wearing that shirt, I'll become an object of pity and amusement."

Wow, I had no idea she had such strong feelings on the matter. "Er, ok. So . . . you're going to shop?" She nods, and I catch her eye, saying, "Be careful. Keep track of where you're going - it would be even worse if you didn't make it to the party at all because you got lost!"

She rolls her eyes. "I'll be fine. And what are _you _going to wear, anyway?"

"I'm male, remember? Since I have a dark-colored suit, I'm set for just about anything except the beach."

"Jerk," she mutters under her breath as she turns and retreats to her own room, slamming the connecting door behind her. Ten seconds later, the phone in my room rings.

"Hello Sa - uh, hello?" I almost said _Hello Sara_, but then caught myself - what if it had been Sharon?

"Hi, it's me." Sara, phew.

"Didn't you just stomp away from me not more than 30 seconds ago?"

"Well, yeah. But I forgot to tell you that I'm going to head out now."

I could have figured that out for myself, but I guess it makes her feel more responsible for having informed me. "Ok. I'll see you later, then. Good luck."

Just before the line is disconnected, I distantly hear her hiss a curse involving dresses and animal parts. Yep, all is normal in Sara-ville.

It's 6:26 in the evening and I'm pacing the room. Well, the _rooms, _actually, since I've opened the door between our rooms for no reason other than I felt like it. I check my watch again and am just returning my arm to my side when my cell phone, lying on the dresser, rings. Or rather, vibrates. I grab for it before it bounces off the flat surface and just manage to snag it. "Hello?"

"Hey," she says. "I'm running a little late, but I have an outfit and I _am_ coming. Don't wait for me, ok? I'm going to have to come back to the room to change and it's more convenient to have you gone at that point anyway."

"But I - "

"Grissom, just do it." She's using her tough-woman voice.

Amused, I say only "Yes ma'am" and hang up. I check the mirror, realizing a second later that I'm lucky no one was there to catch me doing it, and tug on my left lapel, which came out of the suitcase slightly wrinkled.

Adjusting my glasses, I head for the elevators.

It takes me only a few seconds to spot Sharon. She's wearing...a sparkly thing. It's a dress, that is, but it doesn't look like what I would have imagined for a cocktail dress. Aren't cocktail dresses supposed to be black and conservative? This one's red, beaded, and cut very low in the front.

I immediately avert my eyes, hoping she didn't catch me looking.

Walking toward me, she smirks. "I saw that, but since I'm a nice girl I'll pretend I didn't."

"Thanks," I say, "I think."

She rolls her eyes. "Where's your shadow?"

"My what? Oh, Sara. She's running late, she said to go on without her and she'll meet us there."

"So you did?"

She sounds amused. Uh-oh. "Was I not supposed to?"

"Well it's just that in girl-speak, sometimes that means, 'I want to hear you say that you would wait a million years for me'. But then, Sara doesn't strike me as that type, so you're probably safe."

Good god, why don't they make dictionaries for these things! Not knowing how to respond to Sharon's pronouncement, I say only, "Yeah."

"Well? Come on then, let's socialize." She offers me her arm in grand fashion.

Resigned to my fate, I take it and we head for the party.

"It's not in wide use yet," Sharon's Canadian friend, Alex, is explaining to the small knot of people I'm standing in, "but more and more police departments are picking it up."

"But isn't it very subjective?" asks a blonde woman who I haven't been introduced to. "I mean, who's to say what counts as a hedging remark and what doesn't?"

"Well," Alex acknowledges, "it's not as definite as -" His voice cuts off and his eyes widen. "Whoa."

Everyone's heads turn to see what distracted the man who had seemed totally absorbed in our conversation. It takes me a moment to zero in on anyone in the crowd, but then I spot the woman he must be looking at.

I'm not nearly as surprised as I ought to be to see that it's Sara - but a Sara I've certainly never seen before. True, she managed to keep to her desire not to wear a dress, but in my own humble opinion, the pantsuit she's wearing is perhaps even more of a departure for her: it's black and sleek-looking, but even with her facing directly toward us, I can see a bit of bare flesh on her side - which means there's probably more where that came from. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with a few bits trailing down the sides of her face.

I blink, shake my head slightly, and slew my eyes toward Sharon, expecting to see a look of displeasure. Instead, she has a small smile on her face - she almost looks...proud. Meeting my eyes, she grins and twitches her heard toward Sara, telling me I should go meet her.

I obey and start forward, meeting her about halfway between the entrance and our group. "Sara," I say, and then stop, unable to think of an appropriate, non-clichéd remark.

She smiles slightly. "Hi. Told you I'd found an outfit."

Feeling like I've now been given permission, I allow myself to take a closer look at her. The shirt portion of the pantsuit is cut simply in the front - it basically looks like one of her regular tank tops, only made out of something shiny, and along the bottom hem runs a row of embroidered roses. The pants, again, are similar to her day-to-day wear, and yet subtly different. They seem to fit tighter on her, and although they're not shiny like her top, they seem kind of...shimmery.

"Nice, right?" she asks, apparently oblivious to how tongue-tied she's made me.

"Very," I manage to agree.

She smiles again and glances at where I had been standing. Her eyes narrow slightly when they fall on Sharon, but she quickly looks back at me and smiles a little wider, then steps off toward the group. I'm distracted, and don't start walking until a second later, giving me a good view of her back. And I do her mean her _back_ - there's almost no fabric covering it. What was, in the front, a conservatively cut tank top is, in the back, a deeply-cut U-shape, with drapes of fabric framing her bare back all the way down to…well, the top of her sacral spine.

I notice that I've stopped walking, and quickly pick up my pace, catching up with her.

"Sorry I'm late," Sara says smoothly to the group. "My wardrobe was caught unawares and I had to do some last-minute shopping." She offers her hand to Alex and smiles around at the group. "I'm Sara Sidle."


	12. Beauty

Alex just stands there and stares for another fraction of a second before he takes her hand and gives it a shake that looks more like a caress to me. "Alex Cane," he says. "Nice to meet you."

Sara grins. "Likewise, I'm sure," she intones grandly - with barely any sarcasm in her voice, I note!

"Emily Milan," says the blonde. "Are you one of the Las Vegas people?"

"Yep, I'm here with..." She pauses, looks around for a second, spots me. "...with Gil. We're both from the LVPD crime lab."

Well, I'm gratified that she at least hasn't forgotten me. Feeling like I'm supposed to say something, I just nod definitively.

Emily widens her eyes and looks admiringly at Sara. "God, I'm jealous. You guys must get such exciting work out there. I'm from East Bumblefuck, New Jersey, and I'm lucky if I can even get a robbery in that town!"

"Metro work isn't nearly as great as it sounds from a distance," Alex cuts in just as I'm starting to enjoy watching the two beautiful women chat. "Blood's damn hard to get out of your clothes."

Everyone does the polite group-chuckle in response to this, and I'm reminded of why I hate small talk. I consider offering my own opinion - I'm a firm believer that the wider the variety of cases, the better it makes CSIs - and then decide that once I join the conversation, I'll be expected to continue with it...which is not one of my talents.

"Oh, I don't know," Sara says. "A little bleach and some lemon juice will do it, and Grissom - Gil - is always saying that it's better to work the widest variety of cases you can get. Right?" She had been standing toward the center of the knot of people, and as she mentions me she takes a step back, returning to her initial position next to me. She touches my arm lightly and looks at me, waiting. This is clearly her attempt to pass me the conversational ball.

I make a mental note to get back at her for this. Then I steal a look at the exposed skin on her left side. "Exactly," I reply with my best people-person smile. "You read my mind."

She rolls her eyes. "Like that's anything new."

"You guys have worked together a long time?" Sharon asks, looking first to me and then Sara.

"A few -" I begin, but am cut off by Sara.

"_Years_," she says, somehow managing to make the same information sound much more intriguing. "Since I started in the field."

Well, true. I smile, remembering something I can add. "Since before that, Sara - remember that 'special topics' class I taught?"

She laughs. "Can't forget that one! I never thought staying after class with the teacher could be so..." Her voice trails off.

I can imagine her internal monologue: _Oh god, I didn't just say that, did I? In front of eight complete strangers who I may have to work with in a professional capacity? And in front of GRISSOM?_

Gallantly deciding to give her what assistance I can, I finish her thought as innocuously as I can: "...could be so boring?"

She smiles and I feel her squeeze my arm, silently communicating her thanks for the rescue. "Exactly what I meant to say." Shifting her attention back to the group, she fans her hand at her face. "Phew, it's hot in here, isn't it? Grissom, come grab a drink with me?"

I'm about to decline - it would be such an obvious retreat after what just happened - but change my mind when Alex pipes up, "What did you want, Sara? I'll get it."

Ignoring his response, I grab Sara's hand and pull her away from the rest of the people. "Yeah, too hot," I say. "We'll see you all later," I add, looking back at the group.

She allows me to tow her behind me for a few feet, then takes an extra-large step to catch up with me as we head for the bar. "Thanks," she whispers. "I was running out of non-embarrassing conversation." I snort, and she looks at me, adding, "That bit about school sounded _really_ bad, didn't it." It's not a question.

I pause, considering lying. "Well...yeah."

"Argh! _This_ is why I am not a people person! Why aren't you complaining, anyway? You like small talk even less than me."

"My mind was otherwise occupied." Ack. That just slipped out. Now she's going to ask...

"Occupied by what?"

I cough. "Um."

She raises an eyebrow. "Grissom?"

I can't think of an escape route. Oh, screw it. "I was trying to figure out how you get that top to stay on."

She stops walking and stares at me. I'm not entirely an idiot - yet - and so I keep my mouth shut, just smiling at her as though I haven't said anything out of the ordinary. She waits another second, then shakes her head and resumes walking. "You really need to work on conversational continuity, you know that?"

"Huh?" I look blankly at her.

"Every now and then, you'll be talking normally, and then out of your mouth pops some complete non sequitur: 'beauty,' a discussion of my clothing..."

"You know I'm bad at conversation."

As we belly up to the bar, she glances at me again, looking amused. "Yeah, I know."

Later in the evening, I've lost sight of Sara, so when Sharon tries to pull me aside, I allow it. "So?" she says expectantly.

" 'So' what?"

" 'So'...you and Sara seem to be getting along well."

Oh no. Please don't let this be female jealousy. I can't handle that, not tonight. "Yes," I say, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible.

"Well that's good, right?" She looks at me expectantly. "You've been trying to keep her attention all night, so I figured you'd think it was a good thing that she's doing the same."

"Oh. Well...yeah." That was less than brilliant, but I'm not sure what my lines are in this script.

She knuckles my shoulder playfully. "Come on, lighten up! I'm trying to make you smile."

Getting nervous now, I ask, "Are you...drunk?"

"Nah, not really."

She's not helping. "Look, Sharon...if you're, uh...trying to...that is..." I stop. This isn't coming out well.

She's quiet for a second, looking confused, and then her face brightens. "Oh my god, you think I'm hitting on you!"

Actively looking for any escape now, I check my peripheral vision for a path that's clear of people. "I don't..."

"You _do_!" She grins. "Calm down, really. I'm not trying to pick you up. What I was trying to do - though it doesn't seem to have worked too well - was encourage you to make a move with your friend over there." She gestures to the left and I see that she's pointing at Sara, who seems to be deep in conversation with a man about her age. And he's handsome, I note with annoyance.

I let out a sigh of relief, immediately followed by a shallow groan of embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I just assumed..."

"Obviously." She shrugs. "It's ok. You're clearly not used to this sort of thing to begin with. So, back to the subject at hand - what's your plan with Sara?"

"I don't have a plan, Sharon. I'm operating second-to-second now, just hoping to get through the night without any disasters."

"I guess you have to start somewhere. But honestly - if you want my opinion..."

"I don't recall asking for it."

"...then," she continues, ignoring me, "I'd say that she's interested. Hey, you're on vacation, take the risk!"

I can't decide what's more frightening - Sharon trying to hit on me, or Sharon trying to plot with me. "It's more complicated than that," I begin.

"Whoops!" she says, a grin spreading across her face. "Incoming CSI, two o'clock."

I'm about to turn around to see what she's talking about, but before I get around to it, Sara appears at my side and slides her arm around my waist. "Why, Sharon!" she says. "Fancy running into you again!"

I wince. Sara's pressing up against me and Sharon's got a wicked look in her eyes that makes me want to haul ass out of firing range. "Hi, Sara," I manage. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Well, things just got a little more interesting," she says, smirking. "Can I talk to you, Grissom?"

Not good. "Suuure," I say slowly, trying to come up with a way out of it.

"I don't _bite_," Sara chirps. "Come on."

Sharon, obviously barely holding back her laughter, adds, "Yeah Gil, give the girl what she wants."

Sara's smirk changes into a scowl and she tugs on my arm. "Come _on._"

I obediently follow.

"What are you up to?" she blurts once she has me in the warm air outside the hotel, away from the crowd. "You spent almost the whole night closeted with your friend Sharon."

"Not really," I point out. "This was the first time I got to talk to her since you introduced yourself n the beginning."

She leans against the rough brick wall and I'm suddenly back to wondering how her shirt stays on. Sara's odd behavior now seems less interesting than it did a minute ago.

"You having fun in there?" Sara asks, unaware of my train of thought.

I shrug. "It's not as bad as it could be. I've been with much less entertaining crowds."

Relaxing a little more, she nods. "Yeah, true. I'm getting tired, though."

She stops there and seems to be waiting for me to say something. "It's not that late..." I attempt cautiously, looking at my watch.

She draws in a disapproving breath and purses her lips. "I didn't know you were such a party guy."

Ok, that was apparently the wrong answer. I try again: "Were you going to go to bed, then?"

"Not sure...I was thinking I'd just relax, take a bath or something."

She has _got_ to know she's tantalizing me. I try not to let it show. "A bath," I echo as neutrally as I can.

She nods. "So were you...going to stay?"

I think I see the light. Let's see, how do I phrase my answer... "Well," I venture, "now that you mention it, I'm starting to feel my lack of sleep, too."

A small smile creeps across her face. "Interesting. Must be jet lag hitting us both, huh?"

Jet lag? A day late? Right. "Must be," I agree. I hold out my arm to her. "Shall we?"

"Indeed."

The ride up to our room in the elevator is tense. I'm totally at sea with regard to what I'm supposed to be doing and/or saying now. I settle for watching Sara.

She's standing against the far wall of the elevator car, back pressed against it and hands tapping the metal nervously, looking lost in thought. As I'm studying her, she glances up and catches me looking; she just smiles at me and reaches one hand up to play with her hair. Well, technically not "play" - I think she's trying to pin it more securely - but it's all the same to me, observing.

The elevator jerks to a stop with a cheerful _ding_ and as the doors open, I say, "Ladies first."

I trail behind her down the hallway and almost knock her over when she stops abruptly in front of my door. "Got your key?" At my questioning look, she looks down at her outfit and says sheepishly, "Nowhere to put mine in this thing."

Like I need to be reminded!

I fish my key card from my pocket and hold it up. "I've got it covered." I let us both into my room and Sara disappears through the adjoining door as I turn to empty my pockets onto my nightstand. She doesn't shut it behind her, and I can hear miscellaneous noises as she unzips her suitcase, runs water in the sink, and kicks off her shoes. Settling-in noises, I think as I pull off my own shoes and socks and relax on top of the bed.

A few minutes later, she knocks gently on the doorframe and one of her feet appears over the threshold. "Gris?"

I look up at her from my crossword puzzle, sit up, and give her what I hope is a charming smile. "Yes? You need something?"

She takes another step into the room, just looking at me.

This makes me nervous. Beyond nervous. It makes me remember what Sharon said about making the move and taking a risk.

She keeps looking at me.

"Sara?" I prompt, trying not to let my voice communicate my agitation.

"Yeah." Another step into the room. She looks behind her - at her empty room, as far as I can tell - and then quietly shuts the door. The amount of space in the room hasn't decreased, so why do I feel like it's suddenly very small?

Needing to do something, I shift positions again so that I'm now sitting on the edge of the bed instead of in the middle of it. Something is happening. Or going to happen. Or something like that.

I'm just not sure what.

"So..." she begins again. One hand moves up to the nape of her neck and she toys with something - her necklace? Her shirt?

"Yes?" I try one more time.

She backs up a few steps until she has her back against the wall. Or rather, it would be against the wall if my dresser didn't protrude a few feet. As it is, it's more like she has her hips against the dresser and her back against nothing.

"Grissom?" she says, snapping her fingers to get my wandering attention. I nod and raise my eyebrows encouragingly, waiting for her to spit it out.

Finally, she expels a deep breath, drops her chin against her chest and stands still for a long moment. Just as I'm getting ready to say something, she seems to make a decision and raises her head back up. A tentative smile is spreading across her face.

"So..." she says, but this time doesn't stop there. "You wanted to know how my shirt stays on?"

My jaw drops and I gape at her.


	13. Peace

Part 13

I continue to stare at her for what must be close to sixty seconds. What am I supposed to say to that? _Why yes, Sara, I was hoping you'd strip and give me lessons in dressing and undressing you_?

She seems to wilt in front of me. "You were kidding," she decides in a flat voice.

"No! I mean, I was serious about wondering. I just didn't expect...this." Her eyes narrow when she hears the last word. I try again: "I didn't expect this reaction from you. The...enthusiasm."

Her face turns pink and she closes her eyes. Probably trying to wish me to Timbuktu. "I'm sorry," she finally says. "I was...I must be drunker than I thought." Even she doesn't sound convinced by that explanation.

Before I can come up with something to say to make her understand what I'm trying to convey, she jerks open the door between our rooms and disappears through it.

"Sar-" I start, only to be cut off by the soft _snick_ of the door closing behind her.

I did not handle that well.

At all.

I sit for a moment, knowing that I just screwed up my best - and probably last - chance at changing my relationship with Sara.

And she'd looked so beautiful...and then forlorn.

_Too late now_, I tell myself sternly. Go to bed, forget about it, and allow Sara to pretend it never happened. I try lying back on the bed, but all I can do is fidget. After five minutes of that, I sigh. Doing the forget-it-happened thing isn't helping tonight, and probably won't in the future.

I give up.

I sit up and run my fingers through my hair nervously, staring at the door and trying to psych myself up. After a minute, I stand up, walk to it, and knock.

"It's not locked," I hear her say.

I pull the door open. She's lying on her back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She doesn't look at me as I enter.

"I apologize..." I begin.

"Don't." She's still not looking at me. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. That was...inappropriate of me." Her voice tells me nothing - it bears no anger, no fear, no happiness or sadness.

The complete absurdity of that statement is so blatant that without thinking I reply, "Like I was being completely appropriate?"

She's still not looking at me. She turns onto her left side, facing away from me. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

"That's ridiculous."

She shrugs.

Now I'm annoyed. I'm trying to apologize to the woman, and she won't let me! "I'm the one who started it, the one who asked you the question." I walk to the side of the bed and look at her back, which is the only part of her facing me. Some of the drape-y fabric that had framed it earlier has slipped down, so that now her back is fairly well covered.

"You look nice," I say slowly - a tactic change and a peace offering.

"I look disheveled," she corrects, speaking not at me but at the wall.

I look down at her. Ok, maybe her hair isn't neatly pinned up anymore, and her outfit has a few wrinkles from being worn, but I would not in a million years use the word _disheveled_ to describe Sara as she looks now. "No," I say firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You look _nice_. More than nice." I pause, then decide to just go ahead and say what I'm thinking: "You look beautiful. You should have known that from the way every man at the cocktail party was looking at you." _Like she was dessert_, I think, but don't add.

"Not everyman," she says pointedly. At least there's some emotion in her voice now, even if it is just irritation.

"_Every_ man," I say again, this time with heavy emphasis on _every_.

Now she turns onto her right side, so that she's facing me, but she says nothing - just stares.

She's obviously not convinced. I reach out and finger some of the fabric hanging off her side. "Shiny. Nice."

She pulls away slightly. "I said, don't."

"Why not?" I say - and is there a hint of a whine in my voice? I think so.

Finally, she looks me in the eye. "Because I don't like being pitied."

Pitied? What the--? "I don't pity you."

"Then tell me why you just came in here, after showing your real opinion in the other room?"

That's an easy one. "Because I wanted a do-over."

"A what?"

"You know," I say suspecting she's being deliberately obtuse. "A do-over, like kids have, where you erase what just happened and try it again as if it was the first time."

Her mouth twitches at that, I'm sure of it. "Exactly what did you plan on doing over?" she says. She's still skeptical.

"What...just happened. In my room." I stop, lick my lips nervously. "We can pretend we just walked in, and start again from what you said...uh..."

" 'You want to know how my shirt stays on?'" she supplies.

"Yes."

Instead of giving me an answer, she traces a finger over the flowery pattern on the bedspread, tracking a vine that runs from near her shoulder to the edge of my thigh. When she gets there, her hand stills and she cocks her head to the side. "Were you really looking at me? Down at the cocktail party, I mean?"

I smile nervously. "Whenever I thought I could get away with it."

"Why only then?"

I blink. "It's rude to stare," I remind her. "So I didn't."

"Hmm." Her hand moves from the bedspread to my knee, stroking it so lightly that if I wasn't watching it, I might not notice.

"Sara?"

"Hmm," she says again, this time ending the sound on an interrogative pitch.

"Are you going to let me have a do-over?"

"Mmm." She concentrates harder on my leg. I'm pretty sure there's nothing that terribly interesting about my knee.

Impatient for an answer, I scoot down the bed an inch, just out of her reach. "Well?"

She flops onto her back and folds her hands over her stomach. I watch them rise and fall for a few seconds as she breathes. She twiddles her thumbs.

"Sara..." I say, starting to get worried. Maybe that _was_ my last chance that I blew in the other room.

"What are you going to do different this time?" she asks from the depths of the pillows, just when I've decided she's gone to sleep.

I think about that. "I'm...uh...not sure. I just know that I need to actually say something in response to what you said."

She sighs. "A good starting point, but this could be a night full of do-overs." I gulp; she's probably right. Then she surprises me by saying, "Do you want a script?"

"A what?"

"A script. I could supply you with a couple possible answers and a cheat sheet; then all you have to do is read one of them."

I stare at her. "Does this mean I get to try again?"

"Not until you know what you're going to say as a response this time." She sits up and shoves at me. "Move." Afraid I'm about to get the boot, I jump up and back away, but all she does is feel around the floor for the notebook and pencil that are fortuitously there. She waggles the notebook at me. "Script, see?"

I decide to accept my fate. In the long run, it's probably wiser to get her to explicitly tell me what I need to do. Less chance for misunderstanding that way. I walk back to the bed. "I'm not in trouble?"

She's busy scribbling in the notebook and ignores my question. Resigned, I stand and wait to be presented with my script, and after a few minutes she tears a page out and shoves it at me. "Here."

I look at the sheet she's handed me. It looks like a cross between a screenplay and a multiple-choice test:

_Sidle: So...you wanted to know how my shirt stays on?_

_Grissom: choose from G1-G6 below_

_G1: Yes_

_G2: No_

_G3: I was kidding about that part, although it is a very nice shirt, Sara. Grissom smiles_

_G4: Well, I've been pondering the physics of it. The suspension has to be coming from somewhere, but damned if I know where. Grissom walks closer and examines the shirt_

_G5: Yes, in between bouts of wondering how to get it off Grissom tugs experimentally on the shirt_

_G6: You imagined it; I never said that. It's all an alcohol-induced hallucination that you'll forget in the morning. Grissom smiles sympathetically and escorts Sidle back to her room_

I look up from the paper. She has, indeed, provided me with a comprehensive selection of answers. "So are we going to do this again?"

She nods. "But not here." Pointing to the door, she clarifies: "In your room."

"You're the boss," I say, ushering her through the door ahead of me.

She points to my bed. "On the bed, like you were."

That's just about the last order from Sara that I'd ever want to disobey, so I oblige.

She walks back to the adjoining door and for a second I'm afraid she's going to bolt, but then she turns around and smiles at me. "And I'm coming from my room." She walks through the doorway until she's just out of my line of sight. "Ok, now we're starting. As of this second, 'before' never happened."

I wait impatiently for something to happen.

A few seconds later, she knocks gently on the doorframe and one of her feet appears over the threshold. "Gris?"

I forgot to pick up my book of crosswords, so I just sit up and give her my best attempt at a charming smile. "Yes? You need something?"

She takes another step into the room. Watches me.

I fidget. I know we're replaying the scene and all, but couldn't we leave out the uncomfortable pauses?

She keeps looking at me.

"Sara?" I prompt, tired of waiting.

"Yeah." Another step into the room. She looks behind her and gently closes the adjoining door. That same feeling of closed-in-ness settles over the room.

I shift positions, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. This, I remember, is when things started to get interesting.

So I wait for something interesting to happen.

"So..." she begins again. She touches whatever that mysterious necklace/shirt at the nape of her neck is, and smiles, looking like she feels a little silly.

My turn to speak again. "Yes?"

She backs up until she hits my dresser. Then, deviating slightly from what happened before (I make a mental note to tease her about breaking character), she hops up to sit on the edge of it, swinging her legs slightly.

I'm a little bit hypnotized by those legs. I watch one of her heels hit a drawer and think that it will probably leave a mark on the wood.

"Grissom?" she says, snapping her fingers to get my wandering attention. Whoops. I return my attention to her.

She drops her head in a near-perfect replay of earlier and pauses just long enough to make me nervous, then looks up at me with a slow smile. "So..." she says, almost teasingly this time, "you wanted to know how my shirt stays on?"

I look down at the sheet of paper I'm clutching. "Well, I've been pondering the physics of it," I read. "The suspension has to come from somewhere, but I'll need to do a closer inspection to determine where." I'm rather proud of myself for improvising on that last bit. I hope she's equally impressed.

She's smiling - that must be good, right? I wait. She lets another few seconds pass - I'm sure she's doing it just to irk me - and then lowers herself off the dresser and walks toward me.

Oh my god, she's walking toward me. I take a deep breath and try to keep from panicking.

She stops mere inches in front of me. Since I'm still sitting and she's standing, my face is just about at belly-button level on her. I take another breath, then look up at her, waiting for a hint. The script didn't cover this part!

"Well?" she says. "You said you needed to examine it." She spreads her arms in an I'm-yours-to-examine gesture and watches me.

For a moment my anxiety slips away and I'm genuinely curious about the top, and in that second my hand creeps up toward her, but then I jerk it back. She didn't say if touching was allowed. Then again, she hasn't protested so far. I raise my hand again and lightly touch her side, playing with the slick material.

She's still silent, just looking down at me and smiling slightly, and I become a little bolder. I slip the tips of my fingers under the side of the shirt, wondering if maybe there's a hidden set of straps.

Well, and because of the _Oh my god I'm touching Sara_ factor.

I don't feel anything but her skin. Is she not wearing any undergarment at all under this? My hand shakes slightly; I try to make it seem as if I meant to move it, to feel her skin. She's still just...standing there. Watching me. I take a deep breath and raise my other hand, touching the same area on her other side and feeling nothing but skin there either.

It feels almost like I have my arms around her now, even though in reality it's only the tips of my fingers that are touching her. I'm on sensory overload.

I enjoy the feel of her skin for a few more seconds, then slide my hands around to her back. This brings us so close that I if I wanted, I could cushion my head on her belly while I explored her back. I decide against that, however - if I did that, I wouldn't be able to watch her face - and simply concentrate on my hands. Her back is just as soft as her sides. I run one finger up her spine and am rewarded by seeing goosebumps rise on her skin.

I wonder if this feels as strangely intimate to her as it does to me. Barely touching, and I can already feel sparks trying to shoot between us. _This _is why I've kept away from her for so long. This feeling of being tightly bound and overwhelmed by her, and how I can't think of anything else, can't function, when it's happening.

I think that right now, the hotel could probably burn down around us and I wouldn't notice.

One of her hands brushes my shoulder, bringing me back to whatever version of reality I'm currently existing in. "You stopped," she says quietly.

I must have been so absorbed in the mental aspect that my fingers forgot to move. "Sorry." I trace her spine again and announce, "No straps here either."

"Of course," she says. "I'm telling you, it's only female magic that's holding this top up right now."

I move my hand back to her side, exploring a little more toward the front now, until suddenly my fingers hit something adhesive. I stop and look up at her questioningly. "Ok," she admits, "female magic and some gaffer's tape."

We stare at each other for a second and then crack up. Just the way she said it, so sheepishly...I snort a laugh.

"You snorted!" she charges, using one of her fingers to tweak my ear when she's not busy laughing too hard to move.

I laugh harder, clutching at her sides to hold myself up. "Sorry!"

She steps back, out of my reach, and although she's only a few more inches away, I feel deserted and stop laughing. "What?" I ask.

She just looks at me. Not the same way she did earlier; there's no annoyance or impatience in this look. She's just...studying me.

"What?" I ask again.

She quirks a small smile. "I can't remember the last time I saw you really laugh. I don't know if I ever have, actually."

What meaning am I supposed to get from that? My confusion must show on my face because she adds, "It's nice. I like hearing you laugh." She pauses, then moves closer to me and squats down, putting us roughly eye-to-eye. "I like being the one who made you laugh. It makes me feel...good."

"You always feel good," I reply, and although I didn't exactly mean to use a double entendre, she grins.

"How would you know? Tonight's the first time you've ever felt me."

Little does she know how many times I "accidentally" brushed against her at scenes, or didn't pull my hand back quickly enough when passing her a tool. "I wouldn't say that."

Catching me by surprise, she wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes. After a moment, I squeeze back. "I like this," she whispers into my ear.

"Me too."

The phone in my room starts to ring.


	14. Purgatory

I curse. Why, oh why, did someone have to choose this moment to call me? Just when I was finally making progress?

Sara seems more amused than frustrated. She's trying to hold back a grin as she releases me and stands up. "Better answer it, Gris."

I sigh and pick up the phone. "Hello?"

Sharon's voice comes over the line: "Are you kids having fun up there? I noticed you bailed early from the party."

I shoot a nervous glance at Sara. She looks back at me, eyebrows raised in question.

"That's true," I say, trying to sound like I'm having a professional conversation. "Was there anything else, or did you just need to confirm that?"

Sara's at my side now. I guess she's assumed, understandably, that if I'm talking business and confirmations with anyone on the phone, it must be someone at the lab back in Vegas. _Who is it?_ she mouths to me. I wave her away.

"You know," Sharon says, "she's going to ask who just called, anyway. Stop faking it."

I sigh. She's got a point. "Did you need something, Sharon?" I ask pointedly.

Sara's eyes fly to my face and narrow considerably. I try to look innocent.

"Alex and I wanted to know if you and Sara would be interested in going out to dinner tomorrow night, just the four of us."

"You had to call me _now_ to ask that?" I can't believe how bad my luck is.

Sharon's end of the line is quiet for a moment, then: "I interrupted something good, huh? You finally made a move! I'm so proud of you!"

Sara can hear the raised voice, even a foot away from me, and crosses her arms, tilts her head in that now-spill-it kind of way she has, and glares. "Tell her she can't have you!" she hisses, which makes me want to start laughing again.

"Sara says I should tell you that you can't have me," I relay into the phone, smirking. I look back at Sara and add, "Until now, I never realized how in-demand I was!"

Sharon starts laughing, and I can tell she's pulled the phone away from her mouth so she doesn't hurt my ears. "Tell her she's welcome to you."

Sara doesn't look happy. "_You_ tell her," I order Sharon, and hand the phone to Sara, who just looks at it skeptically for a few seconds before she puts it up to her ear.

"Yes?" she says, using the coldest voice I've heard from her in quite a while. A pause. I try to imagine exactly what Sharon's saying. "Tomorrow?" Sara says blankly. Sharon must be repeating her invitation. "Alex and...you? Grissom and me?" A longer pause. Her face softens a bit. "I didn't think..." she says, and stops, listening to what Sharon's saying. "No, really. It's fine. I just..." A short pause. "...exactly," she finishes, sounding guilty.

This just can't be good, I decide, and try to grab the phone from Sara. She won't give it up. I frown at her, but she ignores me, still listening to Sharon. "Well no, we weren't...I mean...not exactly," she finishes lamely. "But could you just...not call back for the rest of the night?"

Aha. There must be some sort of girl-talk going on that I'm missing. My ears perk up.

Sara laughs, then looks at me and quickly looks away. "_No_! We don't need..." She stops short, looks at me again, and seems to decide to censor herself. "I think we can make do," she amends.

A short pause, and Sara holds the phone out to me. She looks a whole lot more relaxed than she did five minutes ago. "She wants to talk to you again," she tells me.

I take the receiver and, without bothering to say _hello_ again, say, "What in the world did you just say to her? You should have seen her face!"

I hear Sara choke behind me, but am too busy waiting for Sharon to answer me to investigate.

"Just girl-talk," Sharon sing-songs. "You know. You wouldn't be interested."

"I definitely _would_."

"Just ask Sara," Sharon advises, and hangs up without saying goodbye.

"That," Sara says, shaking her head bemusedly, "was weird. What did she say to you?"

"Nothing important. Wanted to know if we could go out to dinner with her and Alex tomorrow. It sounded like she had something a lot more interesting to say to _you_, though." I cross my arms, copying her spill-it posture, and wait.

"No, nothing," she says, and I'd swear she blushes.

"Sara."

"Nothing important, really!"

"I didn't ask if she said anything important," I point out. "I asked what she said."

She turns redder, if it's possible. "Just...girlie things," she says, sounding desperate to get me off her back.

I'm not so easily dissuaded. "Like?"

"You're not going to shut up, are you?" she says with a sigh.

I shake my head. "Nope."

She throws up her hands. "I can't believe you're making me repeat this. She asked if she had interrupted...uh..." She looks mortified. I'm now even more interested, and wait for her to continue. "...if she had interrupted our first time together," she forces out, raising an eyebrow meant to convey the meaning of _together_ in this context.

No wonder she's embarrassed! "She asked me almost the same thing," I offer, trying to be empathetic. "What else did she say?"

"I already told you!"

"You left out the part about 'we can manage'," I remind her.

"I am going," she enunciates clearly, "to kill you." Without warning, she hooks a leg behind my knees, dropping me backwards onto the bed.

I bounce for a moment, shocked, and then push myself up on my elbows. "What was that..." I begin, but cut off when she leans over me, nose an inch from mine, and smiles.

"There are some things, Grissom," she says sweetly, "that a girl just doesn't tell."

I try to get in one last dig: "Must have been good."

"Oh," she says, standing back up, "it was." She looks down at me. "You just going to lie there all night?" she asks casually, as though she hadn't just put me here a few seconds ago.

"Depends. Are you going to beat me up if I don't?"

"No," she assures me.

I sigh and move to stand up, until she opens her mouth again. "...not unless you piss me off again."

I immediately flop back onto the bed and play dead.

"Hey!"

"It's only a matter of time, Sara," I say truthfully.

"Hmm. You have a point there." She's quiet for a moment, and I'm afraid to guess what's going to come out of her mouth next.

Instead of speaking, she slides onto the bed, props her chin in her hand, and looks at me.

"What?" I ask. This situation is getting out of my control, and I'm bad enough at handling Sara when I _am_ in control.

"You're cute when you panic."

I blink.

She blinks too.

"What would you do..." she says uncertainly after a moment, "if I asked if I could kiss you now?"

I blink again. "...kiss me?" I repeat. Does this mean I'm not in trouble anymore?

"Yeah. That thing people who like each other do with their lips. Or their noses, depending."

"You want to...kiss me," I say again. My head is spinning. An hour ago, I thought she was never going to look at me again, and now she's asking _permission_ to kiss me?

"I guess not," she says, taking my silence as a _no_ and moving to stand up.

I grab her wrist. "No! I mean yes!" I attempt.

"Pick one, Grissom," she orders. But at least she's not trying to get up now.

"If you were to ask if you could kiss me," I say slowly, reflecting on it, "I would probably turn pale and start shaking, then nod and wait for you to do it."

"So is that an 'ok'?"

I nod. "I think so. But I think it's good that I'm already not standing up."

"So, if I were to do this..." She lowers her head an inch toward mine. "...you wouldn't freak out on me?"

"No..."

"This?" She lowers her head another inch.

I shake my head, mute.

"Last chance, Grissom," she whispers when her lips are a millimeter from mine. "Back out now if you're going to back out."

I meet her eyes and wait.

She closes her eyes and kisses me softly, using almost no pressure, then pulls back immediately. I just continue to look at her. This is her show now, and I'm very interested in what the next act will be.

"Still with me?" she breathes.

I incline my head in a slight nod. "But can I sit up now?"

"Oh!" She seems embarrassed to realize that she was hovering over me. "Sure!" She gets off the bed and stands up.

"I didn't say you couldn't sit too," I tell her.

She just looks at me, eyes wide, looking like she just had an epiphany. A bad one. "I think..." She swallows. "I think maybe I should just go to bed."

What! I stare at her. "Bed?"

"In my room," she adds hastily. "Not here."

I decide to be the voice of reason. "Are you actually tired?"

"Well...no."

"So then why are you saying you want to go to bed?"

She twists the ring on her right hand nervously. "I just thought that maybe...maybe I've done enough tonight."

"You're the one scared now," I say, suddenly understanding. "Why?"

She shakes her head. "I can't explain it."

"Is it something I did? Can I fix it?"

She sighs. "You're such a _male_. Always thinking everything has an easy fix."

"Believe me, Sara," I say. "There's no way anything having to do with you is 'easy'. Just tell me what's wrong. I know it has to be _something_ having to do with me."

"I was just...caught up in the moment. I shouldn't be in here," she mumbles. "I need to..."

I grab her hand to keep her from walking away. "I'm trying to be up-front with you, to find out exactly what you want me to do. That's the only way I'll be able to not screw this up. And you're not helping by refusing to talk to me."

She shakes her head. "No. This is just..." she says, pulling her arm away from me, "it's too much."

I backpedal. "Ok, fine. If that was too much...I guess I can relate. But please don't go in your room and slam the door again. Stay in here."

She looks confused. "What for?"

I stand up and walk over to her, wondering what she'll do.

She holds her ground until the last second, then backs up a step when I reach for her, pressing herself as hard as she can against the closed door. That stings - she doesn't want me to touch her? I hold up my hands as if I'm showing that I hold no weapons. "I won't touch you, how's that?" I suggest. "I won't touch you if you don't want. Just sit and..." I search my mind for some non-threatening activity. "Watch TV with me," I finally say lamely.

"TV," she repeats, sounding like she thinks I've lost my mind. "With you."

I nod and try to look as harmless as I can. "I don't get to spend a lot of time with you," I say, as if that's news to either of us. "I just want to enjoy your company for a while. Nothing has to happen," I add, groping for words that will make her relax. "I'll sit in the chair and you can sit on the bed."

"I'm not _scared_ of you, Grissom," she says, sounding offended. "I don't think you're going to maul me."

She doesn't? Then what's the problem? I look at her, confused.

"I'm more afraid that _I'm_ going to maul _you_."

Ah, I'm beginning to see the light. "Well," I tell her, "I'm not afraid that you're going to maul me, so that's not an excuse." She still hasn't relaxed her defensive stance, but I can't think of anything else to say. "Please?" I finally say quietly, just looking at her.

She sighs. "This is really weird, but...ok. And you don't have to sit across the room or anything."

"Ok," I say cautiously. "What shouldn't I do, then?"

She shrugs, looking harassed. "I'll let you know if you do it."

Ok. I can deal with that, at least for now. I give her a tentative smile, then turn and walk back to the bed. Sitting down on the end, I pat the space next to me. "So, have a seat."

She does, albeit hesitantly, holding herself stiffly away from me. Trying to ignore her obvious discomfiture, I pick up the remote control from the bedside table and ask her if she has any preference for what we watch.

She doesn't, so I decide to select a movie from the Pay-per-View options. It's a delicate business, trying to select something that's not too romantic or sexy, but also not too boring, but I eventually find it: the original, 1970s version of _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory_. No sexual tension to speak of, but plenty of grown-up jokes and plain old gags.

She looks at me in surprise when I select the _Purchase_ option. "Willy Wonka?"

I smile. "It's a funny movie. You got a better idea?"

"Nope."

"Ok, then." I move up the bed so that I'm facing the TV straight-on, with the headboard and pillows supporting my neck and back. I tug on her hand, pulling her up until she assumes a similar position at my side. "Let's relax."


	15. Ascension

By the time Charlie Bucket's teacher declares that he he can't calculate a percent if Charlie's eaten only _two_ Wonka Bars, Sara's relaxed enough announce, "The answer's 'two thousandths,' you idiot!" She looks over at me and rolls her eyes, waiting for me to agree. I just smile.

When Augustus Gloop takes a header into the chocolate river, she starts laughing, hard enough that she slips down the headboard and ends up with her head in the pillows, giggling the whole time. I look down and wait for her to sit up again, but she doesn't, just keeps snickering. Hmm. Sara is now lying on my bed, even if it is rather stiffly.

Innnnnteresting.

I inch down the headboard too, moving slowly and keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn't panic, until I'm lying alongside her. We're not touching, except for our elbows, but still - we're lying together on my bed. I try hard not to grin like an idiot.

"What?" she says when she catches me looking at her.

"Nothing. Watch the movie." I turn my attention back to the TV, where the cast has just climbed into some sort of riverboat.

My attention stays on the TV for thirteen whole seconds before I'm sneaking glances at her again. She's completely oblivious, and I get to watch her for close to half an hour before she shifts position and turns her head slightly. I can tell she's peeking at me now, too.

Trying to pretend I haven't been looking, I make a show of moving around a bit, trying to get more comfortable. She seems to buy it, I think, but a few seconds later, her hand creeps across the space between us and slides over mine. Shocked, I look back at her, but she's got her eyes glued to the movie. I wrap my fingers around hers and savor the sensation.

When Veruca Salt is judged a _bad egg _and the scale sends her down the garbage chute, we look at each other and say in unison, "We need one of those at the lab!" Sara cracks up, taking her hand back from mine to cover her face as she laughs.

I watch her. Sara almost never laughs like this at home in Las Vegas. It's refreshing; it makes me smile, myself. It reminds me of the times when we didn't avoid each other, when we could just enjoy each other's company. This could be the beginning of another of those times, I think.

And maybe I could manage not to ruin it this time.

When her laughter dies down, she notices that I've been watching her again. "What?" she demands, sounding like she's losing patience with me.

I shrug, then reach out and take back her hand from where it ended up on her leg. "I love it when you laugh," I tell her, intertwining my fingers with hers and laying our entwined hands back on her leg. "It makes me remember how you used to be, before things...went wrong."

She looks at me, surprise plain on her face. "_You_ never laugh either," she says. "Not counting tonight, I can't think of the last time I even saw you smile." Her words hurt a little, but that's overpowered by the sensation of her index finger gently stroking the back of my hand.

"Well," I say, clearing my throat and looking away - why yes, I _am_ chicken! - "I haven't been very happy for the past few years..."

"Because of me?" she finishes for me. Her finger has stopped moving against my hand.

"No!" I exclaim, eyes returning to her face. "Because of _me_."

"So then..." she begins, "what --" She stops, closing her mouth with a snap.

"What, Sara?"

"Nothing. You...I don't think you want to get into this."

What had she been about to say? "Try me," I suggest, as much to myself as to her. "You might be right, but you might be wrong."

She worries her lip for a moment, then slowly pulls her hand from mine and sits up Indian-style, facing me. "I was going to ask, uh...ask what's changed now, that suddenly you're not uncomfortable with me anymore."

I take off my glasses, clean them on my shirt, put them back on. Try to buy as much time as I can.

"See?" she says, before I can come up with an answer. "I was right."

"I don't mind getting into this," I insist. "The problem is that I don't know the answer to your question."

She raises her eyebrows. "You have no idea what suddenly triggered this outpouring of friendliness?"

"Give me a second," I say. "I'm trying to work it out."

She gives me a strange look - not angry, more like...indulgent? - and waits, picking at a hangnail on one hand.

"I'm...here with you," I finally muster up. "Without an escape; it's very different from Las Vegas, where I can retreat into my office."

"It's because I've got you cornered?" she translates.

"Not exactly." I sigh. "It's...there are a lot of things that played into it, I think." I look down at my hands and start ticking things off on my fingers: "The way you talked to me when I first told you about this workshop. The mood I happened to be in the morning we left. That ridiculous eyebrow man and the...kiss. The way you shared your candy with me on the plane. How you took care of things when I was too tired to function. The way you...make little jokes about us and manage to make me think without me realizing it. The way you snap at Sharon when she comes near me." I stop, take a breath. "The way you look in that outfit," I add, looking up at her.

She sits quietly for a second, seeming to process that. "None of those things seems terribly earth-shaking to me," she says after a while.

"The earth-shaking occurred when you starting working for me. Everything since then has just been aftershocks."

That seems to startle a smile from her. "That's sweet, Grissom. Did you just come up with it on the spot?"

I shrug. "I guess so."

"So what you're saying is that there was nothing big that caused this - just a bunch of small things that happened in too quick a succession for you to recover between them?"

I blink. That's _exactly_ what I was trying to say, I realize, but I could never have gotten it out so clearly. "Yes," I say simply. "You chipped away at me, I guess."

She seems to be somewhat comforted, and slips down on the bed until she's mostly lying down again, with her head propped on her hand. "You came back tonight."

I look at her in confusion and she adds, "When things got weird between us tonight, you came back to try again. It's the first time you've ever done that. Usually you'd just...disappear."

No wonder I felt so nervous before I did it! I hadn't thought about how really unprecedented it was for me. Deciding that if I'm already having a night of departures from my usual personality, I may as well continue it, I turn more on my side and lay my hand on her hip. My fingers touch that same area of bare skin they felt earlier. I idly trace the u-shape of the fabric.

"Grissom?"

"Mmm?"

"The movie's not over." She's not pulling away, though, I notice.

I don't answer, just run my hand up her back, which draws my entire body closer to hers, and cup the nape of her neck.

"Gris." She's still not moving away.

"What?"

She's quiet for a second. "I don't know. It just feels weird."

I move my hand away from her and meet her eyes. " 'Weird' like 'bad'?" I ask. "Or 'weird' like 'this is a new experience and I am currently evaluating it'?"

"The second one, I think," she says, then shrugs. "Ignore me."

"Not going to ignore you," I inform her, letting my hand return to her back. "Talk as much as you want. I'll just..." I break off and lean down to kiss her bare shoulder. "...keep myself occupied."

"Grissom!" This time she sounds like there's a giggle behind the word.

"Whaaat?" I mock playfully, not stopping what I'm doing.

"You're kissing my skin."

"You're right," I say, pausing for a moment and looking up at her. "It's very nice skin. Do you want me to stop?"

She lets out a long breath. "No..." Her fingers touch my neck where I'm bending it toward her, sliding gently over my skin and making me feel all sorts of tingles.

I suck in a breath and kiss her neck. "Do you realize," I mumble into it, "that, if you think about it, we're hardly touching each other?"

"Mmm." She lays her head against my pillow, allowing me better access to her neck. "Feels just fine to me."

I kiss up to her jaw as my hand explores her back. I feel a button at the nape of her neck and toy with it for a few seconds and then, feeling adventurous, slip it out of its loop. The top droops away from Sara, but since she's pressed against the bed, it doesn't really have anywhere to go.

She gasps, grabbing at the shirt, and sits up to glare at me. "Grissom!"

I move my hand away but can't hold back a smirk. "Sorry. I didn't know what the button did."

"Well you do now," she says in a schoolmarm voice.

"Mmhmm," I say. "It's an interesting discovery." She's still sitting up and staring at me and I reach out and, careful not to touch the shirt, gently pull her back down until we're both on our sides, face to face. "And after making that discovery, I'm intrigued," I add, letting my lips brush the corner of her mouth.

She sucks in a surprised breath, then moves her head the fraction of an inch it takes for our lips to meet. One of her arms slips across my waist and the other slides under my head. I feel her fingers stroke my back through my shirt. I copy her movement, letting my hand drift across her own waist and slightly up her back.

She sighs into my mouth as I walk my fingers up her side. After a few seconds, I realize that the top of her shirt has completely fallen away. Suddenly nervous, I try to pull my hand away from her, but she moves her own hand from my side and stops the movement. "It's fine," she breathes into my ear.

I'm still for another moment, trying to decide how to continue, and then I give up and move my hand back to where I left off. I feel her tugging on the back of my shirt, untucking it from my pants, and then her hand slides up my bare back. I shudder and pull back slightly, suddenly overwhelmed by this reality. My hands are still on her, but hers fall away from me as she looks at my face. "What?" she asks.

"Sara..." I say. I'm trying to slow my rapid breathing.

She starts kissing my neck as she mumbles, "What?"

"Sar--" I shiver as I feel her teeth scrape against my skin. "Sara."

"What?" she repeats. She takes pity on me and draws back, scanning my face. "Gris?"

I shake my head. I don't know what's going on in my brain anymore, so I just I lean my forehead against hers as I finally start to catch my breath. "Sorry."

"You want to stop?" she says softly.

I suck in a breath. "No...I don't know. I don't think so."

She smiles at me - the full-blown Sara Sidle smile that I haven't seen in months - and touches my face. "It's ok. We can stop."

I nod slightly. "Maybe for now. I don't...I mean this isn't...I mean, it's not you. I'm just..."

Her eyes soften as she looks at me. "I know. It's overwhelming. Don't worry."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop," she orders, levering herself up on her elbows. "I said that it's fine, and I mean it."

I don't think she realizes that her shirt is still hanging down. I gape.

She follows my gaze down to her chest and gasps. "Sorry!" she says, pulling it up.

I stop her hand. "Don't." She looks at me, confused, and I add, "You're beautiful. You don't need to...hide it."

She swallows hard. "Oh." She loosens her grip and allows the top to slip again. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"I _know_ that you _are_ beautiful," I correct. "I wasn't kidding about all those men ogling you at the party."

"Mmm," she says with a tiny smug smile. "I was too busy looking at you to notice them."

I lean up and kiss her neck, right over her carotid artery. I can feel her pulse pounding beneath my lips. "Thank you."

"For what?" she asks, touching her neck where I just kissed it.

I wiggle closer to her and take her hand in mine, squeezing it gently as I lay my head on the pillow next to her. "For letting me have my do-over."

A/N: Woo, I think I'm getting better at this almost-semi-smut thing!


	16. Dallas Dan meets the LowCut Shirt

Distantly, I hear a phone ring. I open my eyes and try to sit up, but find myself pinned down by the arm and leg of one very attractive brunette named Sara, who seems to be sleeping soundly while sprawled over me.

We must have fallen asleep, I realize as I work my way out from under her and start tracking the ringing phone, which turns out to be the house phone on the desk in my room.

"Grissom," I answer, holding the phone in one hand and rubbing my tired eyes with the other.

"Gil?" says a female voice.

I grunt an assent.

"It's Sharon. It's 8:30 in the morning." She stops, seeming to be waiting for an answer.

She got me out of my nice warm bed to tell me _that_? "Uh-huh," I say blankly. "And?"

She sighs loudly. "_And_ we need to be downstairs at 9 for the morning session. Are you guys awake?"

I look at the watch I never got around to taking off last night. "Shit!"

"I'll take that as a no," Sharon says. "I figured you guys might forget to schedule a wake-up call. You both seemed a little...distracted when I called last night."

"Damn," I say and then, remembering my manners, add, "Thank you for the call."

"No problem. Hey, I'm on my way to Dunkin Donuts now. Do you want me to pick you guys up some breakfast while I'm there?"

Sara's sitting up in bed now, looking both confused and delicious. I give her a smile and then tell Sharon, "That would be great."

"Any preferences?"

"Umm...coffee, black, for both of us...a crueller for me, and..." I look at Sara, who seems to have caught on to the topic at hand. _Coffee roll_, she mouths at me. "And a coffee roll for Sara," I finish.

"Your wish is my command," Sharon says cheerfully. "See you in half an hour."

I hang up the phone and look at Sara. "We forgot to set the alarm," I tell her. "We have to be at the workshop in half an hour. That was Sharon on the phone, offering to bring us breakfast."

Her eyes widen. "Crap!"

"Exactly." I can't help grinning - she looks so tempting sitting in that bed. "Good thing we have two bathrooms."

"No kidding!" she says, throwing back the covers. "Wanna race? Whoever's ready first wins a prize."

"You're on." We both turn and dash for our respective bathrooms.

Fifteen minutes later, I put on my glasses and knock on the connecting door.

"Come in!"

I open the door and find Sara sitting on the bed, fully dressed and looking bored. "I win," she says smugly.

I put on an expression of mock-disbelief. "You're female, you can't have beaten me!"

Standing up, she grabs her notebook and key card off the desk and gives me a blinding smile. "I can do a lot of things you've never even considered." While I'm busy pondering the implications of _that_ statement, she heads for the door and adds, "Ready?"

With a sigh, I follow her out the door.

We slip into the meeting room just as the first lecture starts, and work our way to the seats Sharon saved for us.

-------------------------

"So?" Sharon demands a few hours later, twirling a strand of lo mein around her fork. "You guys have a fun night?"

"Sharon!" I scold, giving her a look that says _not here!_

She smirks and forks down the noodle. "That good, huh?"

I look at Sara, waiting for an explosion, but instead of preparing to kill the other woman, she's carefully balancing a small ball of white rice on the edge of her spoon. I reach under the table and squeeze her knee, giving her a warning look, but she just raises an eyebrow, grins, and lets fly at Sharon with her makeshift catapult.

The rice ball drops neatly into the v-neckline of Sharon's shirt and she grabs at it with a squeak. "Sara!"

I catch Alex's eye and note that he's trying hard not to laugh out loud. I shake my head mournfully at him, mouthing _Can you believe these two? _That seems to kill the last of his self-control and he bursts out laughing.

Sharon turns and glares at Alex, then fishes the rice out of her shirt and flings it at him. He tries to catch it, but the ball is finally played out and breaks apart against his palm. Brushing the grains of rice off of his hands, Alex gives us a calm smile and asks Sara, "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?"

Sara, without comment, returns to demurely eating her teriyaki vegetables.

There are a few minutes of silence, then Sharon says, "Are you guys going to have dinner with us tonight?"

Sara and I exchange a look. She shrugs, indicating that it's up to me. I consider for a moment saying "no," and locking Sara in my room all night, but decide that might not go over too well. I try for something not quite so obvious: "Depends. Where did you want to eat?"

"No idea." Sharon tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at Alex, who mirrors Sara's shrug. "I don't know too much about what's available in the area."

"I don't think any of us do," Sara says.

"We could ask at the front desk of the hotel," I suggest. "Usually they're happy to set you up with reservations."

Sara elbows me. "We're not going anywhere fancy enough to need reservations! I wore my one and only nice outfit last night."

Oh boy, did she ever!

"Well," I say, forcing my mind away from last night, "that narrows the selection. But I still say we should ask the concierge."

"Why don't you do that, Gil," Sharon says. "You seem to be Mr. Urbane."

Sara stifles something that's a cross between a scoff and a laugh. "'Urbane'...oh, if only Las Vegas could see you now..."

I give her a dark look, lean over, and whisper into her ear, "You know what you said just before we left the room this morning, about things I've never considered?" She moves her head in a tiny nod. "I know how to do a lot of things _you've _never considered, either."

If I wasn't less than a millimeter from touching her, I would never have noticed the little shiver that runs through her body. "Stop," she says, sounding more amused than annoyed, as she pushes at my shoulder. "We'll talk about that later."

I raise my eyebrows. We will?

Sharon coughs politely from the other side of the table. "You two done, over there?"

"Yes," I say.

"Nope," Sara says at the same time.

I get another elbow in the ribs for that. I poke her back, then point to her plate. "You look like you're done to me."

-------------------------

Our assignment for the afternoon session is to write a thousand words on a non-technical subject, then have our partners count word frequencies using a simple shell script on the computers we're provided. Sara grins at me as I sigh heavily. I exhausted all my creativity in yesterday's work!

"I know something you can write about," Sara teases me.

I try not to, but I think I turn a little red. "I know something _you _can write about, too," I retort, and stick my tongue out at her for a fraction of a second.

She giggles and Sharon turns and gives us an overly strict look. "_Some_ of us are trying to _create_," she deadpans.

I stick my tongue out at her too.

-------------------------

"So?" Sara says to me when we're back in my room later in the day. "Where are we eating?"

Trying to keep a straight face, I say, "You washed that shiny outfit, right?"

"Grissom!"

I can't help it; I tip her chin up with one finger and kiss the tip of her nose. "We're going to Dallas Dan's Barbeque," I tell her with a grin.

"Dallas _what_?"

"Dallas Dan's," I repeat.

She gives me a playful shove. "Did anyone ever tell you you're weird?"

I act shocked. "Why, no; no one's ever told me that before!"

"So," she says, sidling up to me, "what should I wear to have dinner with...Dallas Dan?"

"I don't think he cares," I smile, "but personally, I think you should wear something low-cut." I try to leer at her, but I'm not sure if it works. My leering skills are a little rusty.

Instead of smacking me as I expect, she looks thoughtful. "Hmm. I think..."

"What?"

She turns and retreats into her room, then shouts back through the door, "I think that can be arranged!"

"How do I look?" she says ten minutes later, doing a slow turn in front of me.

She_ looks_ like someone who makes me reconsider the whole locking-ourselves-in thing. "Very..." I begin, meeting her in the doorway between our rooms. "...nice," I finish, enjoying the great view her shirt offers. She seems to have taken me at my word when I asked for something low-cut. It's a black, wrap-style top in some sort of smooth fabric that makes me want to touch it. The two halves of the shirt cross each other at the very bottom of her sternum - low enough that I wonder if she's using that tape again to stay decent.

I must have stared for a few seconds too long, because she waves a hand in front of my face to get my attention and waits until I meet her eyes. "I'm up here," she says, smirking.

"If you say so," I say, pushing her hand away and eyeing that neckline again.

"You can be an ass sometimes, you know that?"

"Sure." I don't move my eyes.

"Grissom!" she says with a theatrical sigh, turning away and pulling open the hall door. "Let's go." She makes a _come on_ motion with her arm and I follow her out of the room.

"We're meeting Sharon and Alex downstairs," I say as we start down the hall toward the elevators.

"Hmm. What floor are we on again?"

I blink. "Thirty-two. Why?"

She shrugs and is about to say something when the elevator _dings_ and its doors slide open in front of us.

I follow her in, surreptitiously enjoying the view her fitted pants provide. My mind is _really_ in the gutter tonight, I realize. I back up a step from her and lean against the wall. "You like barbeque, don't you?" I ask, suddenly realizing that I have no idea if she does or not. "They have non-meat options," I add. "I checked."

"Yeah, it's fine. I love corn on the cob when it's grilled; I hope they have it."

"That, I don't know. Sorry."

"It's ok. I'll figure it out." She shrugs. So," she says after a second, in a more playful tone of voice, "you like my shirt, I take it?"

I try for flippancy: "I'm trying to decide whether it's worth the risk of you being arrested for public nudity."

"I'm not naked!"

"Might as well be."

Her eyes narrow and one eyebrow inches upward; she's giving me such mixed signals that I can't decide if she's angry or interested. "Oh?" She takes a step toward me in the small elevator car. "So right now you feel like I'm standing next to you..._naked_?"

"Umm. No?"

"Because I'm not going to a restaurant if I'm naked," she adds, obviously enjoying torturing me.

"The other option is to stay here," I point out. "And if we do that, you _will _be naked." My timing is perfect - as her jaw drops and she prepares to verbally flay me, the elevator _dings_ cheerfully and spits us out right in front of Sharon and Alex.

Alex just nods a hello, but Sharon catches the looks on our faces and seems to come to the correct conclusion: that once again she's walked into the middle of something very interesting that's happening between those two Las Vegas folks. "Hi," she finally says, realizing that we're not going to fill her in when I just glare at her and Sara pretends to be absorbed in pulling a loose thread off her pants.

I give her a bright smile that says, _Nope, absolutely nothing wrong here. Not a thing for you to wonder about! _

"Hi," Sara responds. She gives Sharon a short nod, although now that she's had a moment to recover from what I said in the elevator, her attention seems to be more focused on placing her heel on exactly the part of my foot that causes the most pain. I wince, but restrain myself from trying to step on her other foot with _my_ other foot. The last thing we need is the two of us tangled up on the floor.

Hmm.

On second thought...

Sounding as calm as ever, Alex interrupts my thoughts. "So," he says casually, as though nothing odd is going on in front of him, "what's for dinner?"

Sara speaks before I get a chance to. "_Bar_beque," she sing-songs, drawing out the first syllable. "Dallas Dan's Barbeque, to be exact."

Sharon and Alex look at each other, then back at Sara. "Who's Dallas Dan?"

Sara tries to hold back a smile, but I can see her mouth twitching on the sides. "Dallas Dan's Barbeque," I say sardonically, "happens to be one of the best-rated restaurants in this year's Zagat's. The concierge said the food is good, plentiful, and cheap; I figured that covered all the bases."

"Barbeque," Sharon repeats. "Barbeque!" She starts laughing as if it's the funniest thing she's heard all day.

What's going on here? I stare, waiting for her to explain herself, but she just continues snickering.

I continue to stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sara and Alex exchange a look. That annoys me more and, out of patience, I look back at Sharon and demand, "What's so funny?"

"I second that question," Sara says.

Alex nods. "Me too."

Still laughing, Sharon leans over and stage-whispers into Sara's ear, "Barbeque? I could tell he wasn't a romantic, but _barbeque_?"

I wonder whether there's some rule saying that you can't take a girl to a barbeque restaurant until after you're engaged, or something. I stay quiet and listen, hoping one of the women will explain this unexpected wrinkle in my plan.

"Ohhhh." Sara rolls her eyes, seeming to get what Sharon's saying. She grins and glances at me, then back to the other woman. "A romantic he's not, but he does try. By the fourth year, I had realized that he means well, at least usually."

"Fourth year of what?" Alex asks, and then shuts his mouth, looking like he hadn't meant to join in on this discussion.

"The fourth year of our working together," I answer for her, figuring I might as well show off when the question's easy and I actually know the answer.

Both Sharon and Alex stare at me. "You've been working together for _four years_?" Sharon says, sounding like I just told her that Sara's from Mars and I'm actually a woman.

"Uh, it's five, now," I correct, then stop. The rest of what she said is one of those questions I can't answer. Having no idea what Sharon had meant to ask by echoing what I said, I look at Sara, waiting for her to clear things up.

"Let's just say," Sara says dryly, "that he's methodical. And cautious."

"You poor girl!" Sharon replies, sounding more like she's joking than actually pitying Sara. I should be thankful for that much, I suppose. "I'm buying your dessert tonight!"

_But what if I wanted to buy Sara's dessert?_ I think, shooting mental daggers at Sharon.

Sara looks at me, so quickly that I almost miss it, and then looks away again. "We'll see," she says noncommittally.

"Well!" Alex says, and I detect a note of desperate heartiness in his voice. "Shall we go sample Dallas Dan's wares, then?"


	17. Pastries

The restaurant is just off Times Square, which means we need to find some transportation other than our feet, which aren't up to the multiple-mile walk. The women, looking like it's the most exciting thing they'll do all week, vote that we take the subway; of course, Alex and I can't disagree or we'd risk looking like we were scared of the big bad train. After fifteen minutes of studying the huge fold-out map the concierge gave me earlier in the day, between Alex and me we've figured out two things: we need to get on a subway, and it needs to be going north. Beyond that, we're still trying to untangle all the colored lines, letters, and shapes that denote individual train routes.

"We could ask the concierge," Sharon suggests.

"No!" Alex and I chorus. "It's silly to ask him about something we're perfectly capable of doing ourselves," I add.

Both women roll their eyes. "I thought you and the concierge would be old pals by now, Gris," Sara teases me.

"We can figure it out," I mutter, staring determinedly at the map. "We're all trained investigators."

"Riiiight," she says, then takes Sharon's arm and pulls her a little away from where Alex and I stand with the map.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as she says something quietly to Sharon, who nods slowly. A moment later, both women return and, before Alex or I can react, Sara snatches the map out of my hands and shakes it pointedly in my direction. "Since _you _two are obviously having issues," she says, looking smug, "Sharon and I will figure this out." The two of them study the map for less than a minute before they look up again. Sharon's adopted Sara's smug look, and now the two of them stand there, grinning at us.

"What?" I say, knowing we're about to be shown up.

"Now, boys," Sharon begins in the exaggerated voice one would use with a three-year-old, "you see this pretty yellow line?" She traces her finger over, yes, a thick yellow line on the map. "That's the N/Q/R/W line."

"Yeah," I mutter.

"And do you know where we are right now?" Sara prompts.

"7th Street and Broadway. By NYU."

"And where are we going?"

"Times Square," Alex says, knowing as well as I do that we're in trouble.

"So..." Sharon says, "let's use our deductive skills, shall we? This" - she points to a dot about three-quarters of the way down the map - "is the NYU station. _This" _- she points to another dot, this one about halfway up - "is the Times Square station." She looks at Alex, then me. "Are we following so far?"

I scowl; Alex crosses his arms and tries to look bored.

"Now," Sara picks up, using two fingers to point to the two dots, "what do we see connecting these two dots?"

"The line you just pointed out," I admit with a sigh, knowing that we've been soundly beaten.

The food at Dallas Dan's Barbeque looks as good as I was told, but no one warned me about the crowded, picnic table-style seating or boisterous atmosphere the place boasts. Sara takes one look at the setup and stops walking. "No way, Gris," she says when I look at her, confused. "It's a firetrap and I'm not going in. Neither are you," she adds. I'm pleased that I'm included in her protective instinct.

"But I made a reservation," I grumble. "They said the food's good!" It's not that I'm particularly eager to enter the firetrap, as Sara phrased it, but I already feel like I've screwed the night up, and if we don't use our reservation I'll feel even dumber.

"C'mon," Sara says, taking my arm and giving it a playful shake, "it's not _your_ fault. You went with what the concierge told you."

I sigh as she leads me outside to the sidewalk. Alex and Sharon trail behind us, but as we move to the side of the pavement Sharon takes my other arm. "Sara's right, it's not your fault. Don't sulk." She gives my arm a squeeze, then catches Sara's eye and drops her hand.

"What are we going to do now?" Alex asks, slumping against the brick building. "I'm hungry."

We all think about that for a second. "We're in Times Square," Sharon finally says. "There are probably a hundred restaurants within the next two blocks. Why don't we just walk until we see something that looks good?"

"This is actually kind of nice," Sara says as we stroll down the sidewalk. "Sightseeing without the pointlessness." She takes my arm then, a few seconds later, seems to decide that's not working and slips her hand into mine. I'm surprised, but manage not to show too much of it. I give her hand a squeeze and splay my fingers so that they intertwine with hers.

"How 'bout a deli?" Sharon says from behind us. She points to a big lighted sign that says _Roxy_. "I see pastries in the window!"

Sara perks up at the word _pastries_. "Where?" she demands.

"There, see?"

We all strain to see into the window she's pointing at.

"Let's do it," Sara says. "I'm starving!"

The desserts in the window Sharon had been pointing at are huge, I realize as we walk in. Huge! Danishes as big as a human head. Cheesecake slices that look like they could feed a small country.

"Oh, wow," Sara breathes. "Look at the size of that sandwich." I obediently look where she's pointing and see a man holding a deli sandwich too tall to fit in his mouth. "Wow," I agree.

We wait a few minutes to be seated, then peruse the menus we're given. At this level of hunger, everything looks good to us, and I'm sure we annoy the waiter with our hemming and hawing. Eventually, Sharon and Alex decide to split a Reuben, which the waiter assures them is big enough to serve the two of them and still have leftovers. Sara and I can't share, since I want something with meat in it, so I order a Turkey Club and remind myself how lucky we are that our hotel rooms have mini-fridges, while she asks for a Three-Cheese Club. We return our menus to the waiter, who slips away with a look that clearly says _Ugh, tourists._

"So?" Sharon says when the waiter is gone. "Tell us more about how you guys have managed to work together for five years with all this sexual tension between you!"

We're no longer shocked by Sharon's prying questions. Instead, Sara just looks at me.

I look at her.

We both shrug. "Years of practice," I say.

"Keeping ourselves busy with lots of other things," she adds.

"And fighting," I conclude.

Sharon blinks. Obviously we haven't provided the juicy details she wanted, but really, what details do Sara and I have to give? We spent the past five years avoiding such messy things as _details_ as much as possible.

"Enough questions about me and Grissom," Sara says. "We don't know anything about Alex except his name!" She looks expectantly at Sharon.

Alex clears his throat and puts down his beer. "Well, uh...I'm Alex Cane and...what else do you want to know?"

"Let's start easy," Sara says. "Where are you from and what do you do?"

"I'm a lieutenant of the Ontario Provincial Police. I mostly handle training of new officers, these days. That's why I'm here; the higher-ups are hoping that I'll absorb all this and then disperse it among the rest of the officers."

"How do you know Sharon?" I ask, eager to keep attention diverted from us.

They exchange a look. "We just met here, this week," Sharon says, sounding like she doesn't much like attention being turned on her.

She's saved from more questions by the arrival of our sandwiches, which are every bit as big as the one Sara pointed out to me earlier. We dig in amidst numerous _oh my god_s and _wow this is great_s.

By the time we finish our sandwiches, we all know that there's no way we're going to have room for dessert. Sara seems intrigued by the gigantic slices of chocolate cake, though, and I ask her if she wants to try it.

"Mmm," she says indecisively. "It looks _so _good, but I'm so full..."

"Why not get it as takeout?" suggests Alex.

"Ooh, yes!" Sara says. "Midnight snack, here I come!"

It's decided, and we move on to settling the bill. The sandwiches' prices are proportionate to their size, and I'm surprised at how much three sandwiches and two drinks cost in New York. We decide to just split the cost in half, rather than calculate who ate what. Alex, Sara, and I all reach for our wallets. I look at her, feeling slightly off balance. Shouldn't she be letting me pay for her, if things are going as well as I thought?

I push her hand away. "I'll get it."

She frowns at me, ignores what I said, and takes a twenty out of her wallet, adding it to the two bills Alex has already set on the table. I promptly pick it out of the pile, slide it toward her, and replace it with two twenties of my own. Her frown deepens. "What are you doing?"

I raise my eyebrows. "...Paying?"

"For me?" She looks genuinely confused now. Alex and Sharon are now watching us curiously, but without surprise. I guess they're used to our bickering.

"I had planned to, yes."

"I brought money," she says, as if that should bar me from using mine.

"I know," I tell her. "And you can keep it. I'm paying."

"But..."

I slip an arm around her shoulders in what would be a comforting gesture if I weren't currently ready to wring her neck, and whisper, "You figured out that I was going to pay for your dessert before we even left the hotel. Just let me pay for the rest of it too. It's...easier."

She sighs. "Fine. I'm getting it next time."

I smile at her, thinking _Yeah, right_. "Sure."

Sara seems to have forgotten the check-paying tension by the time we exit the subway onto 8th street. She's holding my hand again, much to my pleasure. We say good night to Sharon and Alex in the lobby, where they're going to be heading for the hotel bar and Sara and I are going to head to our rooms.

We spend the elevator ride in silence. Just like last night, the closer we get to the rooms, the more nervous we get. Or, at least, the more nervous _I _get. On the other hand, last night she wasn't holding my hand; it's hard to be quite _as_ nervous with her touching me already.

When we step out on the thirty-second floor, I steal a glance at her and then quickly look away. A few seconds later, I see her do the same thing out of the corner of my eye. I'm feeling a little tenser now, although for a different reason than before.

Our beds are behind those doors. Are we going to...do things? Will we share a bed? I'm the one who stopped things last night; will she be waiting for me to give permission for her to touch me?

How the hell am I going to figure out the answers to these questions? I may not date much, but I'm pretty sure that saying, _So, what do I get to do to you tonight? _is taboo in most circumstances.

I'm still turning this over in my mind when Sara lets us into her room, waving her key at me and saying, "Plenty of room for it tonight!" Distracted, I just manage a nod and follow her inside.

"You're quiet," she tells me, turning to look at me questioningly once we're standing between the door and the bed.

"Sorry." I'm at a complete loss; I just can't think of what to say, so I wait for her to say something, instead.

"Anything wrong?" she asks, sounding casual as she sits down on the bed and pulls off a shoe. When I don't answer, she pulls off the other one, then looks up at me, looking a little worried now. "Are you mad that I didn't want you to pay for dinner?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean, I would have preferred you hadn't argued about it, but it's resolved now."

Barefoot now, she stands up and approaches me. She's a little shorter without the shoes and I have to look down at her. "Then what is it? You look...either mad or scared, I can't tell which."

She's going to keep pushing, I know now. I try to think of a way to say this without embarrassing myself or her. "I'm just, uh...unsure."

"Unsure of what?"

"Uh." I look around the room, hoping she'll notice and get the point.

She gets _a _point, but not the right one. "You can go to bed if you want; you don't have to stay and entertain me."

"It's not that."

"Well," she says, leaning into me and wrapping her arms around my waist. I look down at her in surprise as she says, "Obviously I'm not going to be able to guess the right answer. So just tell me."

I tentatively hug her back. "I'm just wondering, uh...what we - I mean you - I mean..." I trail off. I'm just making things worse, I know it.

She lets go of me and steps back, looking a little hurt. "We don't have to do anything, if that's what you're trying to say.

"No! I mean, not exactly." She takes another step back and I sigh, grabbing her hand to keep her from retreating any more. "I don't know what last night means for tonight," I attempt.

"Huh?"

I don't know what else to do; I finally say, "Ok, look. I'm going to say this the way it is in my head, and it's going to come out sounding really bad. So, uh, could you try not to get angry?"

"It kind of depends on what you're about to say," she said with raised eyebrows. "But I'll try."

"Ok. Fair enough." I take a deep breath. "I enjoyed last night." I stop, waiting for a response. She just gives me a small smile and waits. "And I'd like to spend more time with you tonight."

"Oookayyy..." She seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"But I was wondering what, uh..." Deep breath, Gil. "What what we did last night means for tonight. That is, what what _I_ did last night means for tonight."

She furrows her brows. "I'm not totally following you. Give me an example."

I must be bright red by now. I can't believe I'm saying these things. "Well, I...stopped things last night."

"Yes..." She waits.

"And I don't know where that leaves us for...tonight."

"You mean whether anything's going to happen?" She blinks. "Gil Grissom, are you asking me how far I'm going to let you get with me on a second date?"

I'm horrified. Is that what it sounded like? Worse yet, was that what I _meant_? "No!"

She looks disappointed. "Oh. Then what did you mean?"

I roll my neck, trying to work out the kinks caused by how stiffly I've been holding my body. "Ok, fine. I sort of meant that. But not exactly!"

"Keep going." She crosses her arms and sits down on the end of the bed, looking at me like I'm about to tell her an interesting story.

I press my lips together. "I just don't want to do anything that will...alarm you, or makes things awkward. So I wanted to know - to ask you - before it became an issue."

She uncrosses her arms and sets her elbows on her thighs, putting her chin in her hands and looking up at me. "You know, it seems to me that if anyone should be worrying about alarming anyone else tonight, it should be me. I forced you to start things last night, and you had to tell me to stop."

That catches me by surprise, although I guess I can understand how she'd see it that way. I'm not at all concerned about Sara taking advantage of me, though, so I don't try to counter her statement. "So you're not going to have an objection if I...touch you?" I ask, needing to be sure.

She grins. "Nope." Standing up, she hugs me again like she did a few minutes ago. "Touch away."


	18. Cake

A/N: This chapter is more smutty than the last few. It's not explicit, but it leaves no doubt about what's going on. If that's not your thing, I suggest you skip this chapter and pick up at the next one; you won't have missed much plot

Before I can grab her and hug back, she dances away from me. "Oops, first the food, _then_ the touching." I back up and lean against the wall, watching as she picks up the brown bag she dropped on the table when we came in and puts it in her mini-fridge, then stands up again and smiles. "As I was saying..."

Still not feeling too confident, I let her come to me rather than move toward her. Instead of hugging me again, she puts a hand on my cheek and rubs at my beard, which is currently a little overgrown. "Prickly."

I reach out and touch her cheek in kind. "Not prickly. You want me to shave?"

"No, I like it." She takes her hand away, leans toward me so that I'm supporting her weight, and brushes her lips over the prickly area on my cheek.

I slide my arms around her and link my hands against the small of her back. "Good, because I didn't want to shave it." She's still leaning on me, looking...soft. Happy. I bend my head and kiss her lightly. "Hi," I say as her eyes widen a bit.

She grins and puts her arms around my neck, kissing me back. "Hi."

We stand there like that, arms around each other, for a few seconds, then she lays her head on my shoulder and frees one of her hands to touch my lips. Her touch is light as she traces my upper lip, pauses, then moves on to my lower lip. "I love your lips."

I blink. "You love my...what?"

"Your lips. They're nice," she says. "Soft. And fun to play with," she teases.

"Thank you, I think," I say as a feeling settles over me that I can only label as _contentment_. It feels so good to stand here with her, just absorbing her warmth and savoring the contact. "I feel like this huge weight I've been carrying has fallen off my shoulders."

"What?" she says, pulling back to look at me.

I said it out loud, I realize. "I didn't mean that to come out."

"Well, it did," she says. "So explain."

I shake my head and pull her a little closer. "You have no idea how much energy it takes for me to stay away from you. To not look at you, not think about you, not worry about you. And, at least for right now, I don't have to do those things. I feel...unburdened."

"You think about me? And watch me?" she asks doubtfully. "Really?"

Is she kidding? I unclasp my hands and move them to her face, tipping it up so I can look into her eyes. "I'm constantly thinking about you and watching you. There's hardly a time when I'm not." I kiss her again, keeping my eyes open and locked with hers. "You doubted it?" I say when she closes her eyes and pulls away after a few seconds.

"Yeah. You're very good at pretending to ignore me." She moves her free hand back around my neck and locks her arms there. "I can't believe we're standing here actually touching."

"I know," I agree and then, after a second, add playfully, "Touching, huh?"

She turns her head a little and nips at my neck. "Yeah, touching," she mumbles into it, kissing the spot she just bit.

I feel her tongue touch my skin. It's just for a split second, but that's more than long enough to set my mind racing through every dirty thought I ever had about Sara Sidle. I draw in a breath, suddenly not knowing where or what I want to touch first on her. "Sara..."

"What?" She doesn't move her head, and I feel her tongue flick at my earlobe.

"Oh god."

She pulls back now and looks at me. "Is that a good 'oh god' or a bad 'oh god'?"

"Good," I manage with a shudder as her fingers tease the hair at the nape of my neck. "_Very_ good."

"That's ok, then," she says, returning to my neck.

I feel more alive right now than I have in years. My neurons are firing, my skin is tingling, and my body is starting to shake. I let the wall support my weight as she tortures me, but I can only take so much of this, and after a few minutes I simply can't stand still anymore. I take hold of her shoulders and push her back just far enough that she can't kiss me.

"What?" she says. Her lips are wet, her cheeks are a delicate shade of pink, and she's breathing heavily. She's staring at my mouth, not my eyes.

At least I'm not the only one panting. "Give me a second," I breathe.

She stands back and just looks at me, waiting.

I feel a little embarrassed for needing this break. "I, uh...It's been a while since I've felt anything this...intense," I stutter.

She smiles gently. A little sadly. "You want to stop?"

"No! God, no. I just need to...catch my breath."

"I'll wait." She backs up and sits on the bed, still watching me with that half-smile as I lean against the wall, trying to regain control of myself.

After a minute, my heart starts to settle back into something resembling a normal rhythm. I smile at her and walk to the bed, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. "Thanks for waiting," I say as though I'm late for an appointment.

She grins back. "That's what I'm here for." Looking down at her hands, she seems to suddenly lose confidence. "So, uh...what do we do now?"

"Now," I say, undoing the last button, "it's my turn to make _you_ shake."

My shirt hits the floor and I reach for hers. "Have I mentioned to you tonight that I've been wondering how you make this," I say, inching the shirt up her body, "stay in place?"

She shakes her head and bats my hands away, pulling the shirt the rest of the way up by herself. As it slides past her ribs, I hear a soft ripping sound and a second later, the shirt lands in my lap. "Tape, Grissom," she says, taking my hands and placing them there as if to demonstrate. "Lots of tape."

x

x

x

It isn't until well past midnight that Sara remembers her "midnight snack" that's waiting in the fridge. I'm dozing next to her in bed, one arm around her waist and legs curled up under hers, when she sits up suddenly and announces, "Cake!"

One of her elbows hits me as she moves and I open my eyes, mumbling into the pillow, "Wha?" We're laying here naked, with the lights off...and she's thinking about cake? I roll over and stare at her.

"My cake, from dinner!"

I sit up and turn on the bedside lamp. "You know, if I didn't know better I'd say you're more excited about the cake than about me."

She runs a finger down my chest and back up, then pats my cheek. "Never. But I have to tell you, chocolate cake tastes a lot more like chocolate than you do. And a woman's got to have her chocolate."

I give her a gentle shove toward the side of the bed. "Go, then. Replace me, eat your cake."

She grins as she scrambles out of the bed and walks to the fridge. I grin too, enjoying the view her retreating form provides.

She returns to bed after she's retrieved the cake and a fork and plops down next to me. Shoveling in an impressively large first bite, she groans in pleasure. I feel mildly devalued. Mental note: must think of a way to get that same groan out of her without using cake.

She catches my eye, swallows, and gives me a chocolate-edged smile. "Want some?"

Cake usually isn't my thing, but since she seems to like it so much... "Sure." I open my mouth and wait.

Rather than giving me a normal-sized sample, she forks up a piece as big as her first bite and stuffs it in my mouth. I close my now-chocolate-filled mouth and glare at her while I chew. "Hmm...that is pretty good," I mumble around the dense cake. But not groan-worthy, I decide. I finally manage to swallow and refuse a second taste. "I'd rather watch you enjoy," I tell her.

"You mean you haven't seen enough of that tonight?" she teases.

Oh, the mental images _that_ conjures up! I don't know how I'm going to get through the day tomorrow if she decides to be mean and keep teasing me. My unseemly thoughts about her were bad enough _before _I knew what sleeping with her would be like! "I don't think I could ever see too much of that," I say, leaning over to kiss her shoulder. "You don't get enough...enjoyment...in your life."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Mmm...Ecklie's?"

"Grissom!" she laughs, swatting me with her fork, which leaves behind a streak of chocolate on my bicep. "Eww!"

I reach down to wipe the cake off my arm, but she stops my hand and, instead, leans down and licks it off. I shiver a little, wondering if the touch of her tongue will ever _not_ make me want to tackle her. "Don't do that."

She licks her lips and looks up at me. "Why?"

"Because," I say, copying what she did to me earlier and running a finger down her chest, "if you keep it up, we won't get any sleep tonight." Her chest provides a lot more interesting territory to trace than mine does, and I decide to explore it to keep myself busy while she eats.

She laughs and wiggles her eyebrows. "I don't know about you, but I only need about three hours of sleep. That gives us..." She looks at the clock. "...almost four hours to occupy ourselves in other ways."

I roll my eyes. "Eat your cake, woman. I need my beauty rest!"

She snorts and swallows another bite as I add another finger to my exploration of her skin. "Now who's starting things?"

I just smile. "Starting things? Who, me?" I dip my hand a little lower on her body.

"Grissom..."

I'm pleased that it only takes me two more minutes to make her forget any and all cake in the room.


	19. Observation

We were smart and remembered to set the alarm clock this time; as a result, instead of waking up with only minutes to spare and panicking, we wake up with plenty of time...and still panic, kind of.

The alarm buzzes at 7 am and, before I even open my eyes, I'm aware that something's different. There's a woman pressed against me; I can feel her warm skin. Sara's curled up in my arms. We made love last night.

Things have changed.

I'm not sure how much they've changed, or exactly what compartments of our lives have changed, so instead of moving, which would officially start my day, I just open my eyes. Her eyes are also open, and they lock on mine within seconds. Her gaze is steady and direct, but I notice that she doesn't move anything other than her eyes, either.

We lay there for a minute, staring at each other, knowing that when we move, this tentative peace will evaporate.

Time passes.

My mind races. What is she thinking? Did she want this? Is she disgusted?

Finally, Sara speaks: "Is this bad?" Her voice is soft, but matter-of-fact. I can't read any particular emotions from it.

"Are you asking me if I regret this?"

She sighs; I feel her breath on my arm as she exhales. "More or less."

Do I regret this? No, but I don't want to make myself vulnerable by admitting it before I know how _she_ feels. "Well, do _you_ regret it?"

Her eyes narrow. "Don't turn the question around. You know I hate that."

Cornered. What did I expect? I sit up, careful not to pull the sheets off of her when I shove them off of myself. "No, Sara, I don't regret doing this." I think I see her shoulders relax a little, but they tense up again when I add, "But I do kind of regret doing this _now_."

"'Now?' Like, you wish we had waited a few more years?"

I shake my head. "No, that's not what I mean. I mean that I regret doing this before I - we - had figured out where it would go and how we would handle it."

She blinks and takes a second to digest that. "So...you're not going to bolt on me?"

"No," I say. "I'm harder to scare than you seem to think. I'm not going to scream like a little girl, either. "

She relaxes enough to giggle at that. "You remember me saying that?"

"Of course. I remember wondering which of us you were talking about."

She reaches up and pulls on my arm, urging me to lay down again. "Well, you don't see me screaming."

I allow her to force me down and watch with interest as she rolls onto her side and reaches out a hand for me. "You're right," I say after observing her for a long moment. "You're definitely not screaming."

Her hand touches my cheek. "Mmm, well, at least not _that_ kind of screaming."

My eyes widen as I remember what kind of screaming she _was_ doing last night. I clear my throat and will my body to behave. "Good thing. It would annoy the neighbors," I joke lamely.

A smile starts to spread over her face. "I can do that without screaming, too, you know."

"Oh?"

"Want me to show you?"

I look over my shoulder at the clock, then back at her. "As much as I'd love to..."

"...we have a workshop to attend," she finishes for me. "I know, I know."

She really does know me too well. I chuck her under the chin and say, "But...I could use some help scrubbing my back in the shower. Multitasking is important for the successful CSI, you know."

x

x

x

I'm dressed before Sara is today, so while I wait for her, I pick up the phone and call Sharon. She did us a favor yesterday, we owe her one.

After nine rings, I'm just getting ready to hang up when she answers. "Hello?"

"Sharon, it's Gil."

"Hey, you guys are up this morning!"

I grimace. "Yeah. we learned our lesson. Actually, I was going to offer to bring you and Alex breakfast, since you got ours yesterday."

"Hold on." I hear the muffled _clunk_ of a hand being placed over the phone, then some murmuring. A few seconds later, she's back. "That would be great, thanks. Were you going anywhere in particular to get the food?"

"I figured Dunkin Donuts would do again."

"Sounds good. Grab me a french vanilla coffee and a boston cream donut." She pauses and I hear more whispering. "And tea with sugar and a plain bagel for Alex."

I smirk. Seems like there was more than one sleepover going on last night. "Ok, we'll meet you downstairs a little before nine. Oh, and Sharon?"

"Yeah?"

"You might as well just ask him out loud, I know he's there." I hang up with the phone still reverberating with her laughter.

Sara, with her usual impeccable timing, exits the bathroom dressed in a towel only moments after I hang up. "Morning," she says with a smile.

"Again?"

"Yeah. This one is the no-bad-breath 'good morning'."

I wave a hand dismissively. "Ah, you smelled just fine."

She walks over and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. "Thanks."

I just give her a smile. "We're bringing Sharon and Alex breakfast this morning, so you better hurry up and get some clothes on."

"Or what?" she threatens playfully.

"Or I'm leaving you behind and you don't get any food. You're holding up the operation here!"

She rolls her eyes, smiles at me, and drops the towel.

x

x

x

Sharon and Alex seem to be running as late today as Sara and I were yesterday; at 8:58 they step out of the elevator looking like they've been running around all morning. Sharon's hair, rather than being styled and wavy like it usually is, is pulled back into a ponytail; Alex looks like he jumped out of the shower and threw on clothes, and one of his shoes is still untied.

"You guys look put together," Sara says with just a hint of sarcasm.

Sharon draws in a deep breath, lets it out, and demands, "Coffee!"

"Yes ma'am," I say, handing her the paper bag containing their food. "One french vanilla and one tea, as requested."

"I love you!" she sighs, fluttering her eyelashes.

I'm proud of Sara: she kicks my heel but keeps the pleasant expression on her face.

"What's on the agenda for today?" Alex asks as he waits impatiently for Sharon to relinquish the bag.

"Field trip!" Sara says excitedly. "We're supposedly being taken to precincts around the city to observe interviews and practice using the lie-detecting techniques."

I look at her, wondering how she knows that when I don't. She grins and waves a paper copy of the agenda at me. "They were by the door of the ballroom yesterday. You just didn't notice."

Through a mouthful of donut, Sharon mumbles, "Observing interrogations? We could do that at home."

"But does Barstow get as interesting a variety?" Alex points out as he cracks open the lid on his tea.

"True."

"I think it will be interesting to do the observation in a mixed group," I say. "Normally, it's only one or two people watching, but with four or five of us I think there'll be a more interesting intellectual dynamic."

"An 'intellectual dynamic'?" Sara echoes doubtfully.

Sharon swallows her bite of donut and says, "I think he means we can brainstorm."

I nod. "Right."

There's a lull in the conversation as Sharon and Alex inhale their breakfasts. When I notice that Sharon has swallowed her last bite and is in no danger of choking, I take the opportunity to say, "So...you guys enjoy yourselves last night?"

To my left, Sara snorts. To my right, Alex chokes on a sip of tea. Across from me, Sharon just gives me a dirty look. I smile beatifically. "Well, I _told_ you that I could hear him!"

x

x

x

Sara, Sharon, Alex, and I manage to get ourselves into the same observation group, along with two other men who introduce themselves as Vince Mingram and Gary D'Argenio. They're both cops at the nineteenth precinct and native New Yorkers, and I wonder why we didn't meet them _before_ last night's dinner fiasco.

Since our companions already belong to the City, we head to their headquarters for our observations. Their building security is much more stringent than ours in Vegas, and we all have to empty our pockets and send our bags through the x-ray machine before we can even walk through the metal detectors. The guard on duty gives Vince and Gary a friendly nod, but I notice he makes sure that they undergo the same security check as the rest of us. These guys have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, I remind myself.

Gary looks around to make sure we've all cleared the metal detector, then motions us on. "It's not nearly as nice as this inside," he says over his shoulder when he catches Sara staring at the gilded moldings and painted ceiling. She flushes, embarrassed at being caught admiring the trappings.

"Yo!" Vince shouts as we enter the cavernous main room. "O'Leary! What do we got for the workshop people?"

A stocky, black-haired man looks up from his desk and grins. "Hey guys! Right now we're holding a rapist, two assaults, a gangbanger, and four pickpockets. Take your pick."

Vince looks back at our group. "Well? Opinions?"

"Rapist," Sara and Sharon say in unison.

Alex and I look at each other and shrug. "Sure," I say, speaking for both of us. "Rapist is fine."

"Works for me," declares O'Leary. "They're already going, back in rooms five and six," he tells Vince and Gary, jerking his thumb toward the block of interview rooms lining the bullpen.

They lead us to an observation room and usher us through the door. Introductions are made between us and the detective observing the interrogation, Detective Hon, and he invites us to make ourselves at home but to please be quiet about it. We obey, shuffling into the smallish room and arranging ourselves in a cluster behind him. Hon tells us that the suspect is named Angelo and the officer conducting the interview is Bole, then turns back to the window and leaves us to ourselves. Within seconds, I'm absorbed in the action going on in the other room.

"Look," Detective Bole is saying as she leans over the suspect's left shoulder. "You've got scratches on your face. She ID'd you. We can work with you on this, man, but you need to tell us what happened."

The suspect continues to stare sullenly at the scarred table. His lawyer is leaning back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed and failing, at least in my opinion. After a minute, the suspect mumbles, "I don't know her."

"You don't need to _know_ her to have _raped_ her, Angelo," Bole says. "There's not usually an introduction beforehand."

"My client has said that he doesn't know the woman, Detective," lawyer-man says. "If that's the only question you have, then we're done here."

"Oh, no," Bole says. "I have plenty more where that came from. For instance, would he like to explain the semen samples found on both him and the victim, both of which are the same blood type and will soon also be matched for DNA?"

"So you have his blood type," the lawyer says. "Good luck trying to indict on that. As for DNA, when you actually have that evidence - _if_ you _ever_ have that evidence - we can talk again."

I feel Sara's hand touch my shoulder, pulling my attention away from the interrogation. She leans up and whispers in my ear, "It's kind of hard to count lines when he's giving one-sentence answers." I nod, then shrug. We have to work with what we've got and she knows it. I hear her sigh quietly, then turn my eyes back to the suspect.

"Hey!" Bole yells, slapping her hand on the table and making both suspect and lawyer jump. "You're not getting out of here until you give me a story, so start talking."

The suspect shrugs loosely. "I was walking. Just walking down the street! I never even got near the girl, and then some cop throws me up against a wall before I even know he's there and tells me I'm a rapist."

Sharon leans over to me and says quietly, "He almost sounds believable."

I have to agree. We're used to hearing denials, but every now and then you see one where the guy seems sincerely upset by having someone suggest he would commit a crime. It's something in the tone of voice, I think, and maybe the movements of the eyes. Even if I can't quite pin it down, I can see it.

But wait, I admonish myself - I'm not using any of my new linguistic skills to evaluate him. Then again, as Sara said a few minutes ago, he's not giving us much to work with. After a moment of consideration, I lean over to Gary and ask him if we can observe the vic's interview instead. He shrugs a yes and motions us out the door, _en masse_.

The victim is a small, blonde-haired woman wearing a sweatshirt at least four sizes too large for her. She has her arms wrapped around herself and is rocking slightly as she speaks. We get a quick introduction to Detective Dubrowsky, behind the mirror, and Lieutenant Young, in front of it, and then turn our attention to what the victim is saying.

"He was, uh..." she's saying, "large. I mean, not just tall, but _big_, like football-player-I'm-gonna-tackle-you kind of big. He...he used his weight to hold me down. I couldn't even get a hand up to fight back. I always thought that I'd fight for myself, and when it happened, I didn't even try..." Her eyes take on the sheen that I associate with a woman about to cry and I have a sudden urge to rush in there and hug her - not exactly my usual pragmatic reaction to victims.

I feel a hand touch mine, and I look at Sara as she inches a little closer to me so she can hold my hand without being seen. I meet her eyes and she nods: _yes, I believe her_. I nod back: _me too_.

So if she's telling the truth, and the guy in the other room is telling the truth...what are we missing?


	20. Examination

We aren't able to figure out much more about the case from observing the interviews, so we decide to get transcripts of their statements and take a long lunch to study them. Vince and Gary offer to show us one of their favorite restaurants, a little-known Italian place, so we all troop three blocks over to Lombardi's Ristorante.

"Pizza's good here," Gary informs us as we follow a college-aged waitress through a maze of tables and down a flight of stairs.

"Gnocchi, too," Vince adds, ushering Sara and Sharon to the table ahead of the rest of us.

We haven't been seated for more than ten seconds before Sara whips the folded-up statements out of her pocket. "Who wants what first?"

"I want _food_!" Sharon says, pushing Sara's hand away. "The case can wait!"

Sara looks over at me, obviously expecting me to back her up about the importance of the statements, but I keep my eyes on the menu, studiously avoiding her gaze and saying innocently, "This wood-burning oven pizza sounds great."

She swats me in the back of the head with the papers. Such conduct simply cannot be condoned by an effective supervisor, I decide, and before she knows what I'm doing, I grab them from her hand, give her an answering bop on the head, and stick the statements into my back pocket. "Sharon's right. Food first, crime later."

"Oh, _fine_. You never get excited about anything," she whines.

I glance over at her and say an innocuous "Okay," all the while giving her a look that tells her I could answer her accusation with something very interesting, but am too polite to.

She reaches under the table and pinches my leg. I grab her hand and hold it there, pressing it into my leg. Upside: she can't injure me any more. Downside: now we each only have hand to handle the menus.

I look up and notice that Sharon and Alex are watching us like they wish they had popcorn to go with the show. Gary and Vince are watching the four of us like we're insane, which, to be fair, we probably appear to be. I frown at the group, but get no reaction.

"So," Alex says in his _I'm-pretending-nothing-weird-is-going-on_ voice after a few seconds of this stand-off, "what's everyone getting?"

I sigh and drop my menu on the table. "Sausage pizza."

Sara sets hers down too. "Pizza. With olives, not meat," she adds, giving me a prudish look.

I roll my eyes and wait for Sharon and Alex to share. "Fusili," Sharon says when she realizes that the entertainment's over for the moment.

"What the hell's 'fusili'?" Sara asks, looking suspicious.

Ooh, I know the answer to this one! I grin at her. "Imagine your hair on a day you don't straighten it. Now imagine thick spaghetti twisted into that shape - that's fusili."

"Ew," Sharon says, "I really don't want to feel like I'm eating Sara's hair when I eat my lunch."

"You'll survive," Alex tells her. "I'm going to have the gnocchi."

"Mmm, starchy goodness," Gary interjects. Shaken out of our little flirtatious world, Sara, Sharon, Alex, and I all just stare at him blankly.

"We're definitely missing something here," Vince says to Gary under his breath. "How long have all you guys known each other, anyway?"

We all exchange glances. "Depends on who you're asking about," Sara tells him. "Grissom and I have known each other for more than ten years. Sharon and Alex claim to have just met this week. Grissom and I didn't know Sharon and Alex until we got to the workshop - oh, not counting when this one," she says, pointing at me, "tried to pick Sharon up on the plane."

"I did not!" I say, aghast. Sharon looks slightly uncomfortable, and I catch the questioning look Alex gives her. Ahh, blackmail material for the next time she gives me or Sara a hard time! I catch Alex's eye and say, "Too bad you weren't there to save her from the Amazing Eyebrow man."

"The _what_?" say the three men.

Sara chokes on her sip of water and ends up spitting most of it all over my sleeve. I try not to crack up while she coughs and attempts to recover.

"Oh god," Sharon groans when she's sure Sara's breathing again. "Don't remind me of that guy! I'm going to have nightmares, I swear!"

"What's an 'eyebrow man'?" Vince tries again.

Sara, Sharon, and I look at each other. Neither woman volunteers anything, so I guess the explanation is up to me. "Sara, Sharon, and I all came out on the same flight. On this flight there was also a...repulsive-"

"Hairy," Sara adds.

"Smelly," Sharon volunteers.

"A repulsive, hairy, smelly man," I summarize, "who seemed to think he was irresistible to women. He practically groped Sara with me standing right next to her."

"And I got seated next to him!" Sharon says, sounding persecuted. "One grope and I got the hell out of there."

"And that was before he consumed four mini-bottles of Absolut," I add.

Silence reigns as the three newcomers try to digest our tale.

Sara squeezes my hand, hard, and I look at her to find her biting her lip to try to keep from laughing. "Oh sure," I whisper in her ear. "We can joke about it _now_."

"Hey, you're not the one who was the victim of...of _frottage_!" she stage-whispers back, elbowing me in the side.

"I'm not even going to ask what you two are discussing," Vince says. "Because if it involves what I think you just said, I'm staying far away from it."

Our protests are interrupted by the appearance of our waitress, who takes our orders and disappears again with impressive speed.

While we wait for our food, Sara takes the opportunity to steal the statements out of my pocket and smooth them out on the table. "So we've got: a statement from Angelo Salta, the suspect; a statement from Elise Logue, the victim; and two short statements from witnesses Andrea Moore and Jorge Torres. Who wants what?"

I grab for the victim's statement, barely beating out Sharon, who glares at me. Alex selects the male witness's statement and tells Sharon that if she's nice she can share with him, Vince and Gary take the female wit's, and Sara announces that she'll just supervise me. We start reading:

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_E.L.:I was walking to work from my apartment. Only a few blocks, and I've done it every day for two years. I didn't even consider that anything could go wrong. But today, I was turning the corner right before my office and someone ran into me. I got slammed into the wall, hard, and for a few seconds while I tried to catch my breath, I was too out of it to process what was going on. I guess that was as long as he needed to get started, and before I could get my thoughts coordinated he had dragged me down through an open set of cellar doors. I don't know what building it was, but whatever it was, no one came downstairs the whole time he had me down there. I was just starting to recover from the shock of being crushed against the wall, and before I could get it together enough to do something, he was on top of me, kind of spread-eagled, with one of his hands holding my wrists over my head and his legs holding mine down. He used his free hand to...um..._

_Interviewer: Take your time, Miss, but we do need you to provide as much detail as you can._

_E.L.: He used his free hand to jerk my pants open. They had a button at the waist, and he just pulled once and the button flew off. I started talking, asking him what his name was, why was he doing this, all the stuff they tell you to say to distract an attacker, but it didn't seem to work and he just kept going. He, uh...a little while into it, he told me I had to close my eyes, but by then I'd been staring at him for five minutes already. I did it, though. I'm not stupid. But I still couldn't, uh, I couldn't fight back. He had me pinned down so completely that the only part of my body I could move was my torso, and... _

_E.L.: _stops talking and cries quietly 1 minute

_E.L.: I'm sorry. It's...if I moved my body, it made things worse. I mean, he was already...there...and moving...made it hurt more. So once I figured out that I couldn't move my arms or legs, I just lay there while he did it, waiting for it to be over. I couldn't fight. And then he was done, and he just got up off of me and kicked me in the side, and told me that I better not move. As soon as he was gone, I got up anyway. My clothes were torn up. I couldn't button my pants. I think I had dirt ground into my skin from the floor of that room. I went back up the stairs he had pulled me down, and came out on the street. I didn't know what else to do, so I just walked the half-block to my office. I wouldn't tell them what was wrong, but I guess it was kind of obvious that something had happened to me, and they called the police._

_E.L.:_ pause 10s

_E.L.:_ _He was really big. Over six feet, maybe close to six-five. He wasn't fat, but he was just...thick. Heavy enough to hold me down. Dark hair. Dark skin, but he wasn't black. Maybe Mexican or Italian. _

_Interviewer: Did he talk enough for you to tell if he had an accent?_

_E.L.: Not really. He said a few things, but not much, and I didn't hear anything strange in the way he talked._

_Interviewer: Can you give us any more description?_

_E.L.: Um...well, I thought it was weird that that cellar door was conveniently open like that. Maybe he's from around there and checked it out first? Or set it up?_

_Interviewer: Ok, Elise. You've done great, and you've given us a lot of detail to work with, so I'm going to go pass all this information on and we'll get started looking for this guy. Here's my card - if you have any questions, problems...give me a call. If I'm not by the phone, it'll redirect to the switchboard and you can just ask to speak to a detective._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I look up from the paper and meet Sara's eyes. This woman was a fantastic witness compared to what we usually get, and I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't my case and the information she gave isn't relevant to my task.

"Line counts," Sara mumbles beside me.

"Right." I look back at the statement and start counting.

"Only one and a half for exposition," Sara says before I can.

I nod and move on. "Sixteen lines in the body," I say after a few seconds.

"Do we count the question-and-answer part with the detective at the end?" she asks me.

I shrug. "I don't think so. It's not part of her original statement."

"Then it's six lines for the conclusion." She pulls her notes out of her bag and studies them. "Body gets the most, conclusion less, exposition least," she reads off the page. "That's the profile for truthful statements. Our statement matches it."

"So she's telling the truth," I summarize.

"Probably. But there's also the 'hedging' words and stuff to look for."

That was the point where the lecture had begun to lose my attention, so I'm probably useless with regard to these linguistic hedge things. I'm saved from having to admit that by the arrival of our food, which smells so good that I have to hold myself back from grabbing at the pizza before it hits the table.

I eagerly stuff three bites of pizza into my mouth, chew, swallow, and look around the table. Everyone seems to be doing the same thing; it's been longer since breakfast than we realized.

After a few minutes, the feeding frenzy dies down and we start to look up from our plates. "Anyone finish their statement?" Sharon asks, jabbing her fork threateningly at Alex as he tries to steal some of her pasta.

"We did," Sara says. "The victim's statement. She's telling the truth."

Thoughtful looks abound. After a few seconds and another bite of his gnocchi, Alex says, "We finished with the suspect's, and...it looks like he's telling the truth, too."

"Reasons?" Gary queries, grabbing a bit of cheese of one of the pizza platters and dropping it into his mouth.

"Line count. Lack of hedges. Definite statements."

"Same for ours," I say. "So if this method is for real, then you guys-" I nod to Gary and Vince - "had better start looking for a new suspect."


	21. Reclamation

While the rest of the group argues about who could be the rapist if Angelo isn't, I focus on consuming as much of my pizza as I can cram in. I haven't had pizza this good in . . . I don't know how long. Certainly not since I moved to Vegas. Have to take advantage of it while I have the opportunity! I listen to the conversation with half an ear while I chew.

When I hear Gary say, "If Angelo didn't do it, why did we just happen to pick up a guy who fit the victim's description right near the crime scene?" I perk up and start listening more closely.

"Keep in mind that witness statements can be flawed," Sara adds, reaching over and trying to steal a piece of cheese off my plate.

I slide the plate out of her reach and swallow the bite I've been chewing. "Sara's got a point," I agree. "Besides, that description could apply to thousands of the men who live in New York alone."

Sara gives me a dirty look and reaches past me to snag the cheese. "We need more information," she says to the table at large.

Sharon glances at my plate, then at Sara, and smoothly steals more of my cheese. She plops it into her mouth, chews, swallows, and gives me a sweet smile. Two seconds later, before I can block them, the whole table is chowing down on my lunch.

_Oh, well_, I think. _Can't stop it now_. I relax in my chair and watch them finish off my pizza.

Five minutes later, the waitress drops the check onto our table. Sara lets me pay with less argument this time. She just tells me that she has her own money and I don't have to pay for her. She gives me a dirty look, but lets me put my money on the table. I make a mental note to thank her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After lunch, we head back to the hotel. Sara's agenda tells us that the afternoon is dedicated to more lectures, but this time the students are the teachers. Each group has to present the statement they worked on and their conclusions to the assembly.

We listen while the first group describes the homicide that they read about. "The suspect wrote more lines in the exposition than in the body," a thirty-something man is saying. "That's suggestive of a lie. We also found that the contents of the statement had a lot of factual holes. Therefore, we think the writer of this statement lied."

There are three more presentations to sit through before it's our turn. Our presentation goes well, and we're all a little relieved to have it over with, but there are four more groups we have to sit and listen to before we're done for the day. By the time the second group is mid-presentation, Sara's fidgeting beside me. I glance at her and catch her rolling her eyes in the general direction of the podium. _She never was very patient_, I remind myself. _Some things don't change_.

Interrupting my thoughts, she leans into me and whispers, "When can we _leave_?"

"About an hour," I whisper back. "Bored already?"

"You know I am."

"Just try to listen," I tell her, then turn my attention back to the podium.

Two hours later, the last presentation has barely ended before Sara is on her feet and tugging on my sleeve. "Let's go! I have _got _to go to the bathroom!"

Amused, I just look at her for a moment. Somehow I don't think she needs me with her to do that. "You can go without me," I tell her. "I'll meet you back in the room later."

She goes, but she's back before I even leave the room. In fact, I'm standing right where she left me, chatting with Sharon and Alex. We're taking turns telling each other which groups we thought did the best and the worst.

"Well," Sharon is saying saucily when Sara returns, "_I _happen to think that we were the best. We had better examples and I could tell that almost everyone agreed with our arguments."

"That's just because we had two gorgeous women running the presentation," Alex says. _Smooth_, I think. _Now why didn't I think to say that?_

Sharon preens, and Sara looks like she's trying to keep herself from following suit. "What are we doing tonight?" she blurts just as I can tell she's about to lose the battle with her inner female.

"I can think of _one _thing," Sharon says with a smirk, wiggling her eyebrows.

Sara, choosing to ignore that taunt, says firmly, "Whatever we do, there will be absolutely _no _eyebrow wiggling, raising, twisting . . . no eyebrow involvement at all."

"Yes ma'am," I say, faking a salute.

She elbows me in the ribs. "Shut up. I know where you sleep," she adds, probably trying to sound threatening.

To me, it just sounds intriguing. "Really?" I say. "Care to tell _me_ where I sleep?"

She opens her mouth, then seems to remember that Sharon and Alex are watching us. Rather than whatever interesting thing she was about to say, she goes with a generic, "No."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The night ends up going a little differently than what I had planned. Sara and I have barely reached our rooms after dinner before both of our cell phones go nuts simultaneously. We look at each other and groan. The coordinated cell phone rings could only be the work of the team back in Vegas. I don't know about Sara, but I'd really like to stay in my little happy bubble a while longer before work intrudes.

Sara wiggles her phone. "I'll go in the other room, even though . . ."

". . . they're probably both the same call," I finish. "True, but it's better not to set their imaginations working by hearing the two of us in one room."

Her smile dims a little at that. That wasn't an insult! . . . Was it? She's out of sight before I can figure it out, so I just sigh and open my phone. "Grissom."

"You're not going to like this," Catherine's voice warns.

I had pretty much already figured that out, but I say, "Thanks for the warning. What's up?"

"I know you're supposed to be there for a few more days, but we need you guys back. Preferably _yesterday_," she emphasizes.

She doesn't sound too enthused about this either. I wonder what she's not telling me . . .

"Why do you need us so suddenly?"

She coughs - that is, fake-coughs - as she tries to think of a way to avoid dealing with me. I can tell the difference; I'm not quite as dense as the women in my life seem to think. When I just wait for her coughing fit to end, rather than saying something, she gets the picture. "I'll tell you, but you're _really _not going to like this, ok? But don't panic."

As she ought to know, the words _don't panic _set off all sorts of panic alarms in my head. "What happened, Catherine?" I say brusquely, knowing something is very wrong.

"Nick and Warrick had an accident."

"_What_!" I suddenly hear Sara screech from the other room. I wonder who's delivering the bad news to her.

"_What_?" I shout into the phone. It's unoriginal, but it's the only question I can articulate as images of crushed vertebrae and amputated limbs fill my mind. "What kind of accident? Are they hurt? What happened?"

"They rolled the truck they were in. We had a downpour and I guess they were trying to get out of the mud and just . . . over-accelerated or something. They're ok!" she adds before I can ask again. "Banged up, but pretty much ok. Nick's got a nice bald spot where they had to sew up the laceration on his scalp. Warrick dislocated his shoulder, but they got it back in without trouble. He's going to be in a sling for a while. And they're both bruised as hell."

I continue to listen, open-mouthed, for a few seconds before I realize that she'd stopped talking. My head is spinning. My worst fears are allayed, but my god, to have something happen to Nick again, so soon . . . I'm shaken.

Without really thinking about it, I head for Sara's room. I find her sitting on the end of the bed, staring down at her closed phone with the same shell-shocked look I must have on my face. "Catherine," I say into the phone, "hold on a second." I put my thumb over the sound holes in the phone and walk over to Sara.

"Come on," I tell her gently, pulling on her arms to get her to stand up. "Hug me, ok?" It's a ridiculous thing to say, but I think we both feel comforted when her arms go around my waist and her face buries itself in my neck.

I uncover the phone. "Sorry. You swear they're ok?"

"They're fine, Grissom," she reassures. "They both wanted to come back tonight and finish their cases."

"I hope you told them no!"

"Of course I did. I'm not stupid. I sent them both home under the care of Brass, since he was off duty tonight."

I close my eyes for a second, thinking about how much worse it could have been. If they had been in different positions in the truck . . . if help hadn't been able to get to them quickly . . . if Nick's head was an inch to the left and the laceration had been over his temporal artery . . . I'm frozen, haunted by the what-ifs.

I feel Sara take the phone from my hands. "Catherine?" she says. "It's Sara. Grissom . . . needed to start packing." A few seconds of silence. "No! We have adjoining rooms. He came over into mine about a minute ago. Listen, tell me what we need to do to get home." She listens for a moment, then orders Catherine to hold on while she finds a pen and paper.

Five minutes later, she closes the phone and hands it back to me. "We can go tonight if we're willing to rush."

I nod. "Right. So we just need to . . ." I stop, realizing that I have no idea what we need to do.

"You," she says, giving me a gentle push toward my room, "should go call Sharon or Alex so they don't freak out when we're mysteriously gone tomorrow morning. I'll start packing the suitcases. That is, as long as you don't mind having your clothes pretty much stuffed into a big ball."

I shake my head vaguely. "It's fine. Whatever you need to do."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour and a half later, I hand a sizeable tip to the wonderful cabbie who got us to JFK in a very short time and at a very illegal speed, and slide out of the taxi. I check my watch: we have thirty minutes to make our flight. Sara's already at the trunk, pulling out our suitcases. She gives the cabbie a distracted smile, which he returns, and then he's gone.

The upside to trying to fly out of New York City close to midnight is that the lines are almost nonexistent. We fly through check-in, where the agent promises to notify the gate that we're coming, and stop at Security just long enough for a TSA officer to wand Sara. Then we're off again, running for the gate.

The woman at check-in was true to her word; when we skid to a stop outside the jetway door, a flight attendant already has her hand out for our boarding passes. "Just in time," she tells us with a smile. Motioning us through the door, she adds, "Go ahead."

We find out seats without incident and settle down, breathing sighs of relief. As the adrenaline rush that's sustained us for the past few hours begins to wear off, we both wilt. Sara lays her head on my shoulder and I look down at her. She gives me a small smile and says, "Wake me up if I drool."

I think about that for a second. "I have a better idea." I tug experimentally on the armrest between us and find, to my pleasure, that it's moveable. I raise it until it's vertical, then pull Sara the extra inch toward me that the new space allows. Now she's snuggled up against my side. I put my arm around her shoulders and squeeze. "If you drool on me," I whisper into her ear, "I'll just drool on you."

She reaches up with her hand that's not crushed between us and takes the hand I have dangling over her shoulder. Pulling it down so that she's forced almost onto my lap and my hand is almost on her stomach, she kisses my chin but doesn't let go of my hand. "Deal."

Within minutes, we're both asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We sleep for almost the entire flight, but we're still groggy when we stumble out into McCarran. She pulls me to a stop against a wall in the never-ending hallway between the terminal and the baggage claim and sighs.

I look at her questioningly and she shrugs. "We're back. It feels . . . different."

I can understand that. "We should . . ." I start, meaning to tell her that we need to revert back to our former standoffish relationship until it's safe. I cut myself off when I look down at her, though. She looks like she's waiting for me to punch her - muscles tensed, eyes closed, fists clenched. I can't say it. I know it's what she's waiting for me to say, but her position now shows me how much it will hurt her to hear it. "We should keep our eyes open for someone from the lab," I substitute. "Catherine said someone would meet us."

She opens her eyes and stares at me, perplexed. "That's it?"

Moving deliberately, I take her hand in mine and give it a squeeze. "That's it. Let's go find our suitcases."


	22. Recursion

Just before we get to the baggage claim, without any prompting from me, Sara slides her hand out of mine and returns it to her side. I leave my hand as it was for a few seconds, waiting to see if she takes it again, but she just keeps walking. I look at her, surprised. She smiles and gives me a look that tells me that she knows what needs to be done.

"Sara!" a voice calls across the room. We both stop walking, trying to spot whoever's calling. I'm scanning the area behind us when Sara taps me on the shoulder and points to the right. I follow her line of sight and catch a glimpse of a hand waving above the crowd as its owner yells, "Grissom!" After a few seconds, Catherine appears, elbowing her way through the hordes of suitcase-hungry people.

She zeroes in on us and jogs over. "Hey," she says, pushing her hair behind her ears and nodding a welcome. "You guys have luggage?"

She looks tired, I notice. "Have you gotten any sleep?" I ask her.

"Have you?" she retorts.

"We slept on the plane," Sara tells her. "You do look tired. At least me and Grissom didn't spend the night trying to run the lab and take care of two injured friends."

I raise my eyebrows a little. That's about the most charitable thing I've heard Sara say to Catherine in months, if not years. I catch her looking at me out of the corner of her eye; she's obviously aware that she's impressed me. She smiles - just a little quirk of the side of her mouth, not enough for Catherine to catch, but it's there.

Not wanting to let her have the upper hand, I deliberately step on the back of her shoe, pulling her foot half out of it. She stops, forces her foot back into the sneaker, and gives me a _Just wait until I get you home _look.

"Uh, guys?" Catherine interrupts. "If you're done with . . . whatever that was, your plane's luggage carousel just started."

We look guiltily at her, hoping our actions weren't too revealing. "Right," I say, starting toward the carousel. Sara starts to follow me, but I wave a hand at her. "I'll get yours,"

"Since when is he such a gentleman?" I hear Catherine ask Sara. I can't hear Sara's response, but I hope she has a good one.

I return to them a few minutes later with a suitcase in each hand. Setting them down by the two women, I wait for their conversation, which sounds suspiciously detailed, to end. When they're both quiet, I gesture to the suitcases. "Got 'em. What's the plan?"

"Willows Taxi can provide you with three options. One, I can drive each of you to your apartments and leave you. Two, I can take you back to the lab with me. Or three, I can take you over to Nick's house, which is where Brass dumped him and Warrick."

"Nick's," Sara and I say in unison. After thinking about that for a second, I say, "Actually, could you drop us off at my house? That way Sara and I can take my car to see Nick and you can get back to work."

"Ever the boss, aren't you," Catherine mutters darkly. In a normal voice, she adds, "No problem. Unless Sara wants me to drop her off at her place?"

I smell a trap. I wait for Sara to respond, trying to send her telepathic waves of _Be careful! _

I realize a few seconds later that I shouldn't have worried; Sara is as adept at hiding "us" as I am. "Grissom's is fine," she tells Catherine. "I don't want to take the extra half-hour going to my place would require."

"As you wish," Catherine says, turning off the highway onto a side street near my house. "So . . . how was the workshop?"

"Boring!" Sara says.

"Interesting," I say at the same time.

"Ah," Catherine says with an understanding nod. "Good to see you're both still yourselves. Gil, give me a call later - I want to hear about what you learned."

"I -" I begin.

"Here's your house," she interrupts, pulling into my driveway. "Everyone out, and tell the guys I said 'hi'."

"We will," Sara says, eagerly yanking her suitcase out of the back of Catherine's car with too much force and almost knocking herself over backwards. I reflexively grab her around the waist and manage to save both her and the suitcase.

Unfortunately, I now find myself clutching Sara to my chest. Which wouldn't be a problem, except that Catherine is watching with avid interest. I quickly push Sara back to her feet and back away. "I'll call you, Cath," I say pointedly.

"If you say so," she replies. As she climbs back into the driver's seat, she says over her shoulder, "Oh, and Grissom? You might want to stuff that pair of lacy panties back in your suitcase - the zipper's half-busted."

I freeze, trying to decide whether to feel embarrassed or frightened. In fact, I stay frozen for five seconds after her car is gone - until Sara hooks an arm around my neck and applies her body weight. I feel like a tree being climbed by a monkey, but it does succeed in bringing me back to reality. "Stop!" I say, pulling her arm off me. When she does, I look at her sternly. "You packed the suitcases."

She raises a hand as if she was being sworn in. "I swear to god, Grissom, the zipper was fine when I closed your suitcase!"

I glare, which seems to amuse her rather than intimidate her. She starts giggling. "Which do you think would be worse: Catherine thinking you got in my pants, or Catherine thinking it's _your_ lacy thong and there's something she never knew about you?"

I sigh. "Perhaps she'll go against character and be discreet."

"Uh-huh, and perhaps I'll quit CSI and become an exotic dancer."

I wink at her. "I'd definitely come to that show."

"Oh, shut up," she huffs, walking toward my garage. "Get your car."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We're still speaking when we pull up to Nick's house, which I'm pretty sure is a friendliness record for us, at least in Las Vegas. I park in his driveway, noticing that Brass's car is still there. "Three of them," I tell her. "Ready?"

She sighs but doesn't move to get out. "Is this . . . going to be ok?" she asks, gesturing from herself to me and back again.

"What?" I say. "Us?" She nods. "You mean am I going to pretend I hate you?" She nods again. I purse my lips and give her a disapproving look. "I'll have you know I'm a better actor than that. For your information, I intend to completely ignore you," I tell her.

She rolls her eyes and opens her door. "Back to normal, in other words. Ok, let's go."

She doesn't sound upset; I think she understands that I'm not saying that I'm going to keep ignoring her even outside of Nick's house. _Trust_, I tell myself. _That's a good sign_. I follow her out of the car and to Nick's door, allowing her to ring the doorbell.

Brass answers the door and smiles craftily when he sees us. "Wow, two of you at once!" He calls over his shoulder, "Double geek alert, guys!" I hear clattering and rustling as Nick and Warrick do . . . something. Hide the girlie magazines, perhaps?

Sara brushes past Brass and me and makes her way into the living room. I hear her say hello to both men, but then Brass distracts me by nudging me and saying, "Brought Sara, eh? Maybe it was more _convenient_ for the two of you?"

"Shut up," I admonish him. "We just got off a damn plane and came straight here."

"Uh-huh," he said skeptically. "I'll be watching you kids."

I fake a laugh and walk past him to join Sara in the living room. "Grissom!" Nick exclaims. "Sara said you were here but we didn't believe her."

"Why wouldn't I be here?" I ask.

"Well . . ." Nick breaks off and looks at Warrick, who shrugs. "You and Sara don't usually pair off outside of work."

Sara stiffens imperceptibly. I clear my throat. "Sara and I just flew in from New York, Nick. We were at a workshop, not 'pairing off'."

"A workshop," Brass echoes behind me.

"Shut up," Sara tells him - the same order I gave him a few minutes ago. "We're here to see how you two are. You scared the hell out of us!"

"Aw," Nick says, giving her his usual boyish smile, "we're fine. We should be working instead of lying on these couches, but Catherine insisted."

Sara walks over and sits on the edge of the couch near Nick's head. She stares down at him, and I assume she's looking at his new stitches. "Nice," she says after a few seconds, touching his head. "That bald spot's going to last a while."

"Don't remind me," Nick groans. "It looks ridiculous. I swear, I'm not going to be able to get a date until it grows back!"

"Well, given that your other option was bleeding all over everything," I say, "it's the lesser of the two evils. It's hard to get a date when you're dripping blood, too."

"That's our Grissom, ever the pragmatist," Warrick says from the couch he's stretched out on.

"No kidding," Sara grumbles.

Choosing to ignore her baiting, I ask, "What are your prognoses?"

"Our what?" Nick says.

Sara smiles, but allows Warrick to be the one to fill him in. "He means he wants to know what the outlook for our injuries is, idiot!" Looking at me, he says unhappily, "They threatened me with my shoulder popping back out if I start using it too soon . . . Assuming it stays where it's supposed to be, I should be able to work again in a week, except for lifting."

"Nick?" I say with raised eyebrows.

"A day or two," he says, giving Warrick a smug look. "I just split the skin, didn't dent anything important."

"Wasn't anything important to dent," Warrick snorts.

Sara laughs. "Clearly you two are well on the road to recovery." I'm surprised when she looks over at me and says, "You ready to go, Gris?"

"Now?" I ask, surprised that she doesn't want to stay longer.

"Yeah," she says with a nod. "As much as I love you guys," she tells Nick and Warrick, "I'm exhausted, hungry, and grungy. I need to get home."

"Hey, no problem," Warrick says with a sympathetic wave of his hand. "We're not going anywhere in the meantime."

She smiles slightly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you guys. I'll check in with you later, ok?"

"Sounds good," says Nick. "Bye, Gris."

"Uh, bye," I say quickly. I'm not sure whether I should also say I'll check in with them, to be polite, or whether Sara's just that much closer to them. I settle for, "Give me a call when you're feeling better." Both men nod.

Sara reaches for my hand, immediately checks herself and pulls her hand back, and walks nonchalantly past me. "See ya," she says over her shoulder.

"Bye," both men say.

I follow Sara out of the house. When we're settled in the car, we both let out deep sighs of relief. "You think they bought it?" she asks me.

I consider that. "Nick and Warrick, yeah. Brass . . . I'm not so sure."

She sighs again. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Think he'll say anything?"

"I don't think so. He likes you."

She raises her eyebrows. "He likes me?"

"Oh, be quiet," I tell her, starting the engine. "You know what I mean."

"Mmm," she says noncommittally. "Where are we going now?"

I hadn't thought about that; I just automatically pointed the car towards home. "You want me to take you home?"

She nods. "I wasn't kidding when I told Nick I was tired, hungry, and dirty. Trust me, you don't want to be around me right now."

"You've been ok so far," I point out. "Actually, you've been amazingly calm, considering what's going on."

"Uh, well, thanks. I think. But I'm still dirty. And, well . . ." She gives me a meaningful look and I think I feel my ears turn red.

"Would you like to, uh," I begin, feeling silly about having to issue an invitation after days of living in each other's pockets, "do something later today?"

She looks at me, eyes wide. "You're kidding."

Shit. "No . . ." I say. "Would it be better if I was?"

She shakes her head. "No, no. I'm just surprised that, well . . ." She looks away from me, out the window, and finishes, "I'm surprised that you're not trying desperately to get rid of me."

Damn, this is what I was afraid of. Just the state of being in Vegas has triggered our old habits. "I don't want to get rid of you," I tell her. "I guess sometimes it seems like that . . ."

"Only sometimes?" she says cynically.

"Sara," I say firmly. "I have made some big adjustments over the past few days. Believe me when I tell you that one of them is the elimination of any desire to push you farther away from me - mentally or physically."

"Really?" Her voice is soft and I'm afraid she's going to start crying. I don't know what to do with crying women. This could be bad.

"Really." I glance at her quickly, assessing the amount of trouble I'm about to encounter. To my surprise, she's actually smiling, sort of. "So," I try again as I turn the corner onto her street, "would you like to do something today?"

She says nothing until I've pulled into her parking lot and popped the trunk. By the time she gets out to retrieve her suitcase, I've decided that I won't be getting an answer, so I'm surprised when she sets her suitcase on the ground and walks around to my window. I roll it down and wait.

"You . . ." she falters, then says so quickly that I can barely understand her, "How about you give me a call when you're settled." With that, she turns on her heel, picks up her suitcase and walks into her building.

I know she purposely left that statement ambiguous. "When I'm settled" could mean in an hour, it could mean tomorrow, it could even mean _Don't come back until you've learned to function like a normal human being_.

So . . . which one is what she wants? Feeling torn, I back out of her parking lot and head for home.


	23. Resolution

I can only spend so many hours unpacking before I find myself with nothing to do but wonder what I'm supposed to do about Sara. _When you're settled_, I hear her repeat in my head.

When will I be settled?

I need to think. I was able to go along with it for today, but I can't stay in this state of limbo where I don't know where I stand with her. Worse yet, I don't quite know where I _want _to stand with her.

That is, I can clearly articulate what it is that I don't want to happen: I don't want us to revert to our pre-New York non-relationship, where I'm stuck stealing glances and only daydreaming about touching her. I don't want the tension to come back. I don't want her to think of me as aloof.

On the other hand, I don't want either of us to lose our jobs. I don't want to get my heart stomped on. I don't want people to think Sara's sleeping her way to the top.

_But what do I want? _I tax myself. _Well, I want Sara_.

Not that that's a change from what I've wanted for the past five years. _I need to narrow it down to specifics_, I think. That's the only way I'll be able to really work this out. What, specifically, do I want from Sara? From my job?

Companionship. Someone reliable, someone who I trust without question. Someone who understands me and can handle my idiosyncrasies without killing me. Someone tall, with long legs and brown hair . . .

I cut myself off before I can go too far off track and remind myself that I already know _who_ I want; I'm trying to work out _what _I want. If I can have Sara, what will I expect of her? What will the lab expect of us?

I need Sara to be discreet. Whether we hide the relationship at work or not, I don't want to give Ecklie any more ammunition. I would expect that both she and I would function exactly the same in our work environment as we always have, and I would expect her to understand the need for that.

But this is the tricky part: I would expect our work environment to be equally accepting of us. It would make us hate our work, and probably each other, if we found that we had to spend more energy being on guard around each other than working on cases.

How can I know whether work will cooperate, though? I haven't the slightest idea what our reception as a couple would be. I'm certain that Sara doesn't either.

I need a second opinion. I pick up the phone and dial Catherine's number.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A few hours later, I knock on Sara's door. I have a bag of gummi worms in one hand and a bunch of wildflowers, which I'm currently holding much too tightly, in the other. I hear footsteps approaching the door and take a giant step back, not wanting to be in her face when she opens the door.

It opens only as far as the chain will allow and her face appears in the crack. Her eyes widen and she says, "Grissom!" then slams the door.

Feeling an odd sort of deja vu, I stand and wait for her to open the door again.

I hear her scrabbling at the locks and then the door swings open all the way. "Sorry," she says sheepishly, motioning me in.

"Habit, I know," I tell her as I step in. "These are for you." I thrust the flowers at her, knowing as I do it that I'm a long way from being suave like Catherine said I should be.

"Uh, thanks." She accepts the flowers, looks down at them like she doesn't know what to do with them, and lays them on the kitchen counter. "What are you doing here?"

Well, I hadn't expected her to be this up-front, but I guess I can play along. "I came to see you," I tell her. "Oh, and to say, uh, 'thank you' and pay you back."

She leans against the counter and looks at me with an expression I can't decipher. "Exactly what are you thanking me for?"

Not trusting myself to not say something to anger her, I just hold out the bag of candy. She takes it cautiously and studies it. "Gummi worms?"

Now I'm getting unsettled. She's not acting anything like she was earlier today. Has she changed her mind? "I ate yours," I say tentatively. "Almost the whole bag. So I just thought I'd . . ." I shrug and gesture to the bag she's now holding.

She sets it next to the flowers and stares at me. "Let me get this straight. You came all the way over to my apartment . . . to return the candy you ate?"

"No!" What the hell? She's taking this too literally. "I came to . . ." I start. What _did _I come to tell her? "I came to talk to you," I say lamely.

"We're talking," she says, waving her hand to indicate I should go on.

I take a deep breath. "I came to talk to you about what happened this week. And what's going to happen now."

"How so?" she says tightly.

I stammer for a few seconds, but I can't seem to get out anything coherent. Finally I give up and just take her hands in mine, hoping that the contact will calm me.

It doesn't much calm me, but it seems to help her. She squeezes my hands and says, "Grissom, talk to me. If you want to tell me something, just tell me. Even if it's bad. I don't like being kept in suspense."

"It's not bad," I say quickly. "At least, I don't think so."

She sighs and tugs on my hands. "Come on. If you're going to have a meltdown, sit on the couch while you do it."

I let her lead me into her living room and sit on her couch. She sits next to me, folding her legs under her indian-style, still holding my hands. "Talk."

I take a deep breath. "I called Catherine earlier."

She cocks her head to the side, looking puzzled. "Ok . . ."

"I wanted to ask her opinion about something."

"What kind of 'something'?" she prompts.

"I did some thinking while I was unpacking today," I say slowly. "I was trying to decide what . . . where . . . what I want to do with you. Now, I mean. That is, since we've returned to Las Vegas."

She relaxes slightly. "And did you reach a decision?"

"That's why I called Catherine."

"You called _Catherine_ to make your decision for you?" Her voice is starting to take on that tone that I associate with an imminent storm-out. She drops my hands.

"No, I didn't," I say. "I called her because I needed more information before I made a decision."

"You know, I don't think I've ever known anyone quite as _mechanical _as you. You need information to feed into your processor before you can even make a decision about your _personal_ life." She shakes her head. "You're weird, Grissom."

I take comfort in the fact that she sounds more indulgent than frustrated. "I'm sorry. It's just the way I operate."

She shrugs and gives me a small smile. "I know. It's something I'm learning to deal with. Now keep talking."

"Well, like I said, I called Catherine. I wanted to hear her opinion about what would happen if I were to, uh, pursue you."

" 'Pursue me'? You're losing me - I thought we already did the pursuit."

This isn't working as I'd hoped it would, but I tell myself to be thankful that she seems to be intrigued rather than angry. "I mean publicly."

"Pursue me publicly?" She laughs. "I'm getting mental images of you chasing me down the Strip."

I smile. "Not exactly. What I meant was that I asked her what she thought would happen if you and I were to . . . see each other . . . and not keep it hidden."

She stops laughing, closes her mouth with a snap, and stares at me.

I wait for her to say something, but she doesn't, so I venture on: "She checked the departmental regulations for me, so that it's not obvious that I'm the one interested."

"Ok . . ."

"There's no rule against it, Sara," I say, trying not to sound overeager. "We can't be fired for having a relationship with a co-worker unless the relationship leads to decreased work efficiency or compromised integrity."

She just looks at me for a long moment, then says, sounding slightly alarmed, "What, exactly, are you saying, Gris?"

I thought I was being fairly clear about it. I try to think of another way to phrase it. "I'm saying that I don't want to go back to what we were before New York. I want . . . more."

"You're nottrying to escape this?" she says incredulously. "You want to move forward, just like that?" she asks, snapping her fingers on _that_.

"Uh, yes." I'm getting nervous. Did I misread her signals this week? Should I have waited?

"You're not interested in trying to keep this a secret?"

"Why don't you believe me?" I finally ask, irritated by her skepticism.

She sighs. "You've spent years ignoring me. When you finally did something about it, it was somewhere far, far away from our everyday lives. Can you blame me for being a little doubtful that now you suddenly want to not only 'pursue' me, but do it in front of everyone?"

"I guess I can understand that. But Sara . . ."

"Just tell me this," she interrupts. "Tell me what's suddenly changed your mind, and then I'll listen to whatever you have to say after that."

I rub at my beard nervously, trying to formulate a response that will pass muster. "Catherine reminded me of something I said to you once, a few years ago."

"Oh? What?"

"It was after you went into that grocery store trying to trap the Strip Strangler. You were upset when it didn't work," I say, taking her hands again. Staring down at them so I don't have to see her reaction to what I'm about to say, I continue, "That night, I told you that sometimes, the harder thing to do is . . . to do nothing."

Her tension eases a bit, but she stays quiet.

I sigh and look up at her. "I guess I've finally learned to take my own advice."

It takes a second for that to sink in, but when it does she gives me the wide smile I love to see. "Took you long enough."

THE END

xxxxxxx

A/N: I know some of you thought the last chapter was the end, but I thought I needed to wrap it up a little more. So here's chapter 23, the actual last chapter!


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